Spanish songs on bagpipes in the night, echo  gecko bejeweled the walls of their crumble down Casa. He would sit up on the rooftop, alone pen in hand while she played. Listen for the oven timer, not wishing to burn the sweet buns she loved that he made. The rythim of his writing, the lilt to his rhymes, keep time to the footsteps of people below in the street. Spanish songs on bagpipes she plays, take him back to the road of his youth and those carefree, early days. “I stepped softly on words then” wrote The Vagabond Godfrey. Took tentative steps across puddles of pages, easy words I could leap over, still I did not risk a tumble or hard fall”    ” As I grew older learned not to fear the chasms of feelings and canyons of poems I wrought. Poetry as a stepping stone, words my companions in times alone.   Imago, we stood on the cold, coastal docks. She held out a hand bound journal and dry socks. “Said we will meet again, but until then, you must write. She played Spanish songs on the bagpipes at night… Down the rickety ladder, then the stairs, (mind the fourth missing one) Cross the cool, sandy floor on bare feet, warmer near the oven where the timer has rung. Pull out the golden, soft, fresh baked buns. When they cool, set out butter, whip cream, call my daring Clementine down for a treat.   He wakes with cold jolt from dream, Spanish bagpipes only Pytherisum, in the lonely tree, up from where the poet’s stepping stones cross the stream. Words for quiet times alone, will always be the poet’s stepping stones..


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