The wizard's child



Thirty-one, the wizard was, when he became a dad;
He was pleased.  He was scared.  He was happy.  He was sad.
He wished there was a manual or a spell book or a course,
Or a recipe to follow, like the one for apple sauce.
 
But the truth of every wizard has its own specific tone.
And this can make a father feel destitute; alone.
There were times he got things right.  There were times he got them wrong.
The path seemed full of obstacles and, also, very long.
 
He taught his son the ways of the magician and the wizard,
And how to find the path in a blindfold or a blizzard;
How to find a magic stick and use it as a wand;
How to make projections of the future and beyond.
 
The wizard worked at magic school for hours every day;
There were often times he had to work and could not stop to play.
His job provided sanctuary, the comfort of a home,
But father-fear pulled their colours down to monochrome.
 
The wizard lived for years in the only way he knew.
He tried his best to teach his son, to show him what was true.
But he did not know the unconditionality of love,
He did not know his higher self was watching from above,
 
Waiting in abundance with a host of magic tools
That would teach the ways of warriors; seldom taught in schools.
And as he felt so isolated, lost and incomplete,
He could not help but teach his son the art of self defeat.
 
And so the boy grew up and left the home as children do.
He hoped to be a wizard too but could not make it true.
The wizard knew his son was plagued by vitriol and doubt.
He also knew this lesson was his son’s to figure out.
 
So quietly he gave the boy a little bag of gold,
And a map to find the elder who would show him he was bold;
Who would show him he was king of the spell books and the craft;
Who would teach him to be gentle with himself when he was daft.
 
And as the son began to learn the lessons of a Mage,
Love became his focus and it washed away the rage.
He started to be gentle, to be kind and to be clever,
And finally he understood: the lover lives forever.
 
At the age of thirty-one (the boy was now a wizard)
He climbed upon his horse and he galloped through the blizzard.
And at the doors of magic school he breathed a happy sigh:
His father had been waiting with a tear in his eye.
 
They looked at one another with the knowledge of the heart.
They knew they’d shared this journey, absolutely, from its start.
And now the wizards cast their spells in unity and joy,
Knowing they are also just a father and his boy.
 
28th February 2011 © Simon Welsh Poetry