Morpethroad

Bedtime Story

The sun had long set, it was time for bed.

Jack looked up at his mother, telling her

He wanted a story.

Jack’s mother liked telling her small boy stories.

She liked that his eyes were riveted

On her as she told him her tale.

‘Tonight it was about a small boy.

He was afraid of the dark.

The mother worried about

Her son’s continual recount of

His fear of the dark.

He told his mother that when,

She turned out the light, visitors would come.

It was clear he believed the story he told.

Every night she would hear him call her.

Every night she would run to him,

Hold him and rock him back to sleep.

In the morning she would look at him

Ask him if he had slept well.

Always he replied; the lady rocked me to sleep.’

Jack loved this story

He told a similar tale himself

When he would so often awaken and call his mum.

This night looking at her son,

With the love only a mother knows

She told her son when the light was turned off the light

When he was afraid, to ask the lady’s protection.

Expecting the usual evening to occur

She retired to her room and awaited his call.

None came.

Worried she went to his door.

All she heard was the soft breathing of her son.

She sat beside him looking at his sleeping innocence.

The next morning she asked him how he had slept.

Great he said.

No visitors?

Oh yes!

But you didn’t call out.

He looked at his mum,

The visitors had gathered as usual

Round his bed

But the lady had asked them to go away.

Then she sat and told me a story.

She said I would sleep fine from now on.

The next evening she readied again to tell him a tale

No, the lady said she would come.

She tells good stories mum

And sometimes sings me a song.

Goodnight mummy.

She waited outside and listened.

In time she heard him talking.

She crept to his door and peeped in,

Her son sitting up, eyes open, looking at the end of his bed.

Moving closer he settled into his bed

Closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

The mother sat and watched her son.

Sleeping peacefully.

In the morning she asked to whom he was talking?

The lady he replied.

What does she look like?

She loos like you mummy.

Like me?

Yes. She sings to me.

What does she sing?

‘Go to sleep pretty baby, mummy will be here.’

She remembered that song had been sung to her.

She recalled the lady who sang it to her.

She knew, her son was safe.

Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/23/meetingthebar-bedtime-stories-tall-tales-the-art-of-story-telling/