The Bard

Silhouetted against the darkening twilight sky
A figure is resting, feeling lost and alone
Leaning upon his rowan staff, deep in thought
Reliving the events of the afternoon just passed by
Slowly a smile creeps across his weathered face
As he recalled his student and his puzzled expression
As he attempted to capture the essence of his master’s song
Becoming a bard was no easy task when he was young
Remembering the lessons that had to be learnt
Thinking; it would take him all his life long
         
The figure now straightens, slowly turns round,
With staff in hand he walks slowly towards the trees
This is his place, these are his trees he knows them all
It is quiet and peaceful there is almost no sound
Except for the wind that caress’s their leaves
The alder, the hazel and the king oak tree too
Together forming a ring, a circle, his sacred ground
And in the centre lies the flat altar stone
That has been there from the very beginning
A more beautiful place has yet to be found

Carefully he walks up to and gazes upon the stone
And a feeling of power resonates and sparks within
It’s the power of nature, of the seen and the hidden
A sigh of utter devotion and pleasure escapes in a moan
His eyes full of wonder turn to the rising of the moon
Whereby he quietly and reverentially sings his song
Of his life as a bard, lived long and alone
Whilst the last note of his song fades on the wind
He bows he head in thanks and takes his leave.
To return to his king and his people in the great hall
Whereby memories are formed, cherished, nurtured and grown