The Storyteller

A poem by Michael Earls

Tim of the Tales they call me,
With a welcome heart and hand;
But little they hold my brother
For all his cattle and land.

If I be walking the high road
From Clare that goes to the sea,
A troop of the young run leaping
To gather a story from me.

Tim of the Tales, the folk say,
Is known the world around,
For children by taking his stories
To their homes in foreign ground.

I pity my brother his fortunes,
And how he sits alone,
With the money that keeps his body,
But leaves his heart a stone.

And sometimes do I be feeling
A dream of death in my ear,
And a heaven of children calling,
"Tim of the Tales is here."