The Sage (Girl Creates The Sage)
Descended, dripping, from a ledge,
by Warren Atherton
Hair, beard and cloak as white a snow.
Cascading droplets to and fro’
As he stepped foot on Tillanho
In darkness, at the copses edge.
An orange grove before him lay
And to the west the mountains soared
Above white clouds, their summits scored,
And distant ravens loudly cawed
To greet the Sage in wild affray.
The village children rushed to meet
This wise old man with tales to tell
Of slaying Dragons in the dell.
Incant his magic as they fell
And turned to moon-dust at his feet.
With staff in hand he trundled on
O’er yellow pastures kissed by Spring,
And sounds of ‘bumbles’ on the wing –
Enough to make a goblin sing!
Such wondrous sights to gaze upon.
Through deep ravines and rocky shores,
Then on toward a mountain-side
Where foxgloves in its ground abide.
Its northern face a mile wide!
The old Sage smiled, such power allured.
Inciting ancient runes of old,
A roll of thunder pounds the sky.
In wizards tongue, and staff held high,
Points at the zenith, no descry!
As mountain granite turns to gold,
“ Behold the realm of Tillanho,
All forests and all rivers firth,
Foundation of this elven-earth
From whence all things were given birth
When faerie-dust the windeth blow.”