When you come back home,
get me a skyful of stories
of the times when we were younger.
Get me version two;
the first one wasn’t pacy enough.
The rain has washed off the streets,
I’ll make sure they are clean,
have them ready for new laughter.
Come, let’s make it easier
to dip into old stories again.
How do I tell you,
I need your tall tales now more than before.
For I have no words left in my quiver;
I have used them all.
I shot the last of them from my bow
into the dark,
I haven’t found where it landed,
Nor where the earlier ones did.
Maybe I need to change the way
I hold the bowstring,
Maybe I need to hold a word with poise
before shooting it off,
Maybe I need to see another archer at work.
get your stories.