How to Converse with Dragons

In the vale I chanced to walk
And – as fate would have it –
‘Do you speak Stone?’
The Hornbeam asked,
Sounding somewhat frazzled.
I stopped and stared,
And wondered to myself
How it could be that
Anybody would assume
That somebody speaks Tree.
This somebody, alas, was I
And clearly did I hear
The English Oak that stood nearby
Chuckling in my ear.

I frowned and spoke –
In Tree, it seems –
‘I’m really mighty sorry,
I don’t speak Stone but
I would ask what seems to be your worry.’
‘Haha’, the English Oak replied,
But the Hornbeam grumbled,
‘It is a tiny stone beneath
My root which has me stunted.’
So I bent down to dig a bit,
And found the troubled root,
There underneath a stone lay hid
Which gladly I removed.

‘Kind thanks to you’,
Said English Oak, while
Hornbeam was a-titter
With joy and mirth and
Frolicking his roots hither and thither.

I held the stone fast in my hand,
When I could feel it move.
Then open burst the pebble,
Which had me much amused.
A dragon coiled around my wrist
And snugly took abode
Half up my sleeve, half peeping out
Feeling quite at home.
While I still wondered at the beast,
It turned its shining head and
Regarding me the creature said:
‘You’re good at Stone, I give you that,
But I shall teach you Dragon.’

© jsmorgane (Jan 2014)

The Marschallin: ‘Sometimes, in the small hours…’

Your ear like a shell, cream-coloured

And tinged with a flush

Around the smooth edges,

Almost transparent

In the early sun.

 

Your skin like finest sands

With the dawn upon them.

A curling lock of your dark hair,

Lank on your forehead,

Moist with the night.

 

Your neck proudly arched,

Like a harp’s harmonic curve,

Strings echoing a chiming clock.

And when I rest my head on

Your youthful breast

I hear the faint sound of passing time…

 

©jsmorgane