I’m a story weaver.
There are always stories,
and I will tell you yours.

I will weave a cloak from
your story, a rich, warm cloak
that will keep you dry
through the long, dark winter,

and I will weave wings
from your words, so that you
can fly.

I am a grower of rhymes –
I will plant these words deep
in the good soil,
and let them grow into tall trees.
I will pick the fruit
in the Autumn, when the leaves
are golden flames, and the
world catches fire,
and we will savour it together.

I will carve your words
on the river’s skin,
I will write your song
with water, on the city street.

I will set these words
bubbling and brewing,
let them grow themselves
into something new,
transform themselves.
The scent of my words
will drift over the garden,
out across the wall,
it will curve and coil
past houses and offices,
it will find its way
to the sea.

I will carve these words
into the clouds that hang
above the waves,
I will write a poem
on every stone
on every beach,
I will weave your words
into a boat, that will carry you
west, towards the islands of sleep,
east, towards the rising sun,
north, to the great walls of ice
and south, to the burning sands.

I will weave your words
into a boat, that will carry you
beyond the stars.

Not sure what happened here. An incantation, of sorts, for Brendan and the Toads.