Tell me a story, please: of the proud young prince
And the monstrous lady, who made him golden, fine.
Read me a page of your book: then perhaps
I’ll open mine.
Sing me the moors, incarnate ancient bark,
Defended forests. Tell me not of one land
But the worlds you knew: and down that hidden track,
Torchlit under covers, steal with me
The wealth of Titans, the songs of sirens, sung:
The words of legion, the long-forgotten cry
Of ancient ones.
Tell stories to this proud young prince, until
He’s half-asleep: and lend your dreaming vision,
So that full in sleep and wonder will he rest,
And those dreams rest with him.
For Blair: for the stories you tell, and the stories we’ll make.