With wondering eyes and a thundering heart
The boy took his seat, infuriated with the steady
Pace of his mother, waiting on bated breath to start
His adventure. Nevertheless she drags, and ready
To burst the boy sits, and waits patiently.
“My father?” he teeters and yells with delight
“My father!
Tell me his story, leave no detail untouched,
With the glow of your voice might I see his face,
with bated breath might I know such
A man as he was, and be one twice over!”
With her flourish and grace a thread soon formed
And wound through air and ear, a tale spun with love
And seasoned with pride, a whisper to show the roar
Of his existence, the land of mere legend he lay far above.
“He was field-tiller,
Snail-wrangler,
Berry-biter,
He was the huntsman amongst the mushrooms,
The strong amongst the stout.
May the point in is cap never sag
And the bend of his knees never wobble.”
“Though sag his cap did, and with each step a quiver
Showed true, fire burned in each cheek and coursed
Through each vein, the burn of his love sent shivers
Through those lucky enough to have tapped such a source
Of vitality.”
“He was many things my son, that father of yours,
And many more will you be too, but remember
To humble your heart and keep your soul kindled,
For greatness awaits the boy who sleeps in a thimble.”
