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Let there be days

You are no longer all the things you have to be

But just the child inside, waiting

There at the edge of the forest.

You walk, as though into your own first book of stories,

And behind you the dark closes like a door.

You stand, small, in a woollen blanket of silence

That is not silence at all.

Somewhere the soft movement of water,

The dust dancing in a scattering of light;

More unknown than ever will be known,

And the thrill of that beginning in your heart.

Make no mistake: this is once upon a time –

you are a story waiting to be told.