John Paull speaks in a whisper
to kids
and they listen and look
with their eyes
He's like a magician with tins and sticks
or with twine
with shells
and with prairie dog bones
He'll pull out a marble of clay from his shirt
or a stone that he found
on some shore
and he'll tell
of his grandad
the war baby's life sucking on bouillon cubes
or the time
when he wanted some sweets from the shop
and the three pence he had wouldn't do
like the kids do
you'll listen
just to hear John's soft voice
or because you love leaf skeletons
and the kids tell him stories
of owls in trees their collections of cottonwood stars
and the kids
bring him cat claws and antelope skulls which he touches
with gentle, strong hands
The things of the earth are his hat and his wand
his tricks are the stories he tells
from his pockets he pulls stuff you see every day
as you're walking or riding your bike
But the secret of John
is the wonder he brings when
he holds something
up to the light
and he talks of the thing
like it means so much more
and the magic
is in his soft words
Christal McDougall
November 2005
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