The Courtyard

'bout halfway between the Abbey Lantern Gate
and the teeming market square --
I was drawn to an ancient pile of stones --
memories of building once proud and purposefull.
Children play there with parents resting in the shade.
It may be part of the Abbey -- I'll have to ask.

Yesterday I overheard an elder say,

"Ya see that fellow over there, my son;
the one stooped down fixing the child's shoe?
No, the one who almost blends with the stones,
no hat 'neath the blazing sun -- acting free
of concern for the cold wind grabbing you.
Go on and ask him -- just say, "tell a tale!"
He's been there, you know -- sure as getting old,
and if you listen real close -- with your heart,
then you will find the everknown and on."

So, I stood close by to hear and learn
of the secrets of this place.


Aye, I will tell a story -- as that is what I am;
and as I be, it must be true, or I be not for you.
But once you sit you may not leave, or the magick
will then thrice unfold and steal your joy away.

It is called the Courtyard, though I know not 'xactly why;
just leftover from some ancient castle I suspect.
It is much the same as many spots here and round about,
if described by tree and stone and fountain and all;
yet you must embrace the presence -- reach out, enthrall,
and know that those who tarried here left a bit of self.

The ever present shadows are but vibrant echoes
of dreams and thoughts and wisdom found and brought,
cast not by dancing shapes, but by the Light they bear --
and as you stroll within and everby your image too
might cross with theirs and cause a tremble in the current,
that binds the bard and wizard and mystic to the Source.

But let me tell you of how I see it through aged eyes,
though when you travel there t'will be sure recognized
by spirit's laughter and soul's warmth than quickened mind;
but I care not to fence without but gather in to home,
and you would better understand if I did whisper sing,
and touch your brow with fairie wings of brave cycle dawn.

Find there spaces close defined by shallow walls and posts,
but always with gates and entrances more than one
and low enough to leap in flights of fancy or defiance,
but caution that others may be sitting there upon,
or slumbering in the quiet shade or writing in a book,
or pondering on the mortar which does bind the stones.

There is a fountain tinkling there, so it seems to me,
not fed by spring or distant source of tears or rain,
but cycled by each lone traveler who dips the ladle
in the hope-lined depths of the languid knowledge pool
to contribute a heartfelt prayer of creation and love
that cools the breeze as it tumbles down -- down to me.

As you might choose a path of boulders and tortured growth
there is an edifice of crumbling stones held firm by vines.
Beware the thorns and climb the steps of most ancient lore
to the library or temple or tomb -- I'm not quite sure;
for the words are writ in strange languages not meant for all,
but I'd gladly hold a lamp if you would venture there.

Most impressive to me is the towering gnarled tree,
with roots like giant arms that seize my Mother Earth,
and a trunk that disappears in swirling yearning mist.
The bark is fine polished by caressing human hands,
and the branches spread to distant lands in balance
of simple elegance with leaves of rainbow hues.

I guess there are those who would choose to climb a ways,
or hang a swing from a bough -- OK if meant for two,
or catch a drifting petal from flowers that ever bloom,
or press a stolen leaf 'tween the pages of regret --
but I often just sit and watch the children prance and play
in the most peaceful bosom of awe and wonder found.

I cannot tell you how to get there but can guide the way.
Just clasp the hand of a stranger and see magick
though eyes and mem'ries of one who is not thyself,
but who can be a mirror of hidden dreams and fears,
and may have found an answer that you can simple learn,
but just by laughing together you will travel here.