The house by the river bends

The story of the old man's meeting with the king.

In a clearing by the river’s brink

Stood a house, rural and tint.

In this house there lived a man,

Old and wrinkled, happy yet simple.

 

In a castle strayed a man,

To and fro with fingers locked.

Draped in silk, and deep in thought.

A thousand problems for every man,

“It had to be solved”. He thought. “In the best way I can”.

The king grumbled day and night

In his tower surveying his little land,

Till he grew bored and wanted away.

 

Now, in the cabin by the glade, where the old man stayed,

he lay in bed, watching the stars through the hole in his roof.

His mind roamed the skies, seeing the simplicity of life and how it was made.

 

When next day dawned, the king was sitting on his horse; high in heels, with a sword over his shoulder.

During the night the king had decided on, to go for a hunt to clear his mind, before the year grew colder.

He set of through the castle gates with a grand escort riding at his heels.

To flash his splendour to the common, standing by the road.

It was early morning when the old had left his meagre abode,

to catch a fish and still his hunger.

 

The king, on the other side, had chased after a rabbit and was with his escort no longer.

The rabbit slipped away as the king charged through the scrubs with sword in hand.

This was the king’s domain, but it was the rabbit who knew the land.

Where every mossy root laid moulding, which birds nest had eggs holding.

Every dent in the painting of the forest,

every narrow in the stream where a passing was surest.

 

The rabbit hoped over logs and through brushes to a way,

following a stream to where a cabin stood; made of stone, mud and hay.

Now no one was to be seen, when the king charged out of the bush with a heaving chest and sword in hand.

The place was still as stone since the old man was away.

He dismounted, washed his face and decided to stay.

His face was haggard from the hunt, and his clothes were filthy and torn,

By the brush armed with whips and thorns.

Out of wind and soaked in sweat, he made his way towards the meagre stay.

Staggering through the muddy ground, he lost his shoe in a pool of clay.

“Anyone there?” He barked while rapping on the door.

“This is your king, all stiff and sore!”

“Lend me your home and I’ll give you riches.”

“Instead of trees and stones, creeks and ditches.”

But no answer came from inside

since the old man was out, scurrying the wild.

The king broke the door, entered and fell to the floor.

“Let me rest, I can’t take it anymore.”

 

When night grew dark and cold

Walking back through the forest, was the old.

He had caught a fish with a shimmering scale.

In his steps he stopped, face worried and pale.

He saw the broken door, and a man lying on the floor.

Who was that man, who’d found his home?

The man was laying face down when he entered,

His clothes were filthy and torn, and only one shoe he wore.

The smell of the fish roasting over the fire,

awoke the king from his sleep.

“Where am I, whose is this keep?”

“This is no keep, my good man.” The old man said and smiled,

and served him a plate of fish, and mushrooms from the wild.

The king was struck by the old man’s way,

And decided not to say.

That he was king of this creek, of the mushrooms and of the wild.

 

Sitting by the warmth of the fire the old man told him a story.

Of when he was a youth, longing for glory.

As the years passed and he grew older,

He’d fell in love. “Marry me” He’d told her.

She was a girl of noble birth,

And he a simple man, without any worth.

On his knees he’d asked her to come and stay.

In the house by the creek, made of mud, stone and hay.

She had laughed of course and told him a fool,

And threw his ring in a muddy pool.

Since then he’d been alone,

Sitting in his chair, in his throne.

For he was the king of the wild, he explained.

Free from the misery in the city, and all who complained.

The king sat quiet and brooded over the old man’s story.

How pointless was life without any glory.

Could a man live simple and carefree?

Not worry over what is, and what might be.

He was a king and he had duties every day,

He began to think. “What if I stay?”

 

The king ate his meal, and showed the ring with the royal seal.

The old saw it was true. “Forgive me, Sire; I didn’t know it was you”.

“Out here in the wild, you are the king, and I’m the child”.

The king then said, his voice not harsh, but mild.

Could you go in my stead, and let me stay in this shed?

I need to think, to clear my head.

When the birds started to sing,

The old finally agreed to help his king.

With morning they began to hear shouts from the forest,

“My king, where are you.” Sounded the chorus.

“It is time, old man, to take my place”.

“But, Sire. Won’t they recognize my face?”

The king’s voice was high and strong.

The old man stood, it felt so wrong

“They will see a king in you.

A king, a knight, a noble, who:

Stands his ground, and remains true.

For this it is what it means to be a king,

Not to stand alone and hear birds sing”.

“I can do this!” The old man called out,

and strode towards the closest shout.

 

Reviews

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

A beautiful poem. Well written. Thank you for sharing. Debileah

[Constance L. Hartwell]

Dreamy and imaginative. Your words were very descriptive. Great write.

[Nancy Lee Shrader]

Congrats on your winning poem! So very good!

[Jimmy Greenie]

cute little tale