A Tale Told by the Meadow Wanderer

Ah, Who Am I?

A riddle as old as humankind,
whispered through every age,
through every time.

And now, you wish for truth in brief reply?
That is tricky! I won’t lie.

Let the tale branch and grow,
find its path where soft winds blow.

Let them weave in gentle rhyme,
the letters dancing over time.

When the hour turns soft and kind,
perhaps the answer we shall find,
in another riddle twined.

And My Name

There’s more than one,
that much is clear.
Some call me the meadow wanderer, a path finder,
others call me a strider,
a quiet day-dreamer.

And sometimes I hear another name instead,
a merry idler,
spoken softly to my ear.

And I know,
I was not first to bear those names,
nor will I be the last.

Yet if they bloom again
in passing tales,
I will carry them
with quiet grace.

For each step I take
stirs the sleeping songs
beneath the path.

And the night remembers my name
in the hush of a gentle breeze.

A Humble Thought

I, meadow wanderer..

I am not a guide,

nor do I seek a place to arrive.

Neither wholly lost,
nor fully found,
one part of me stays with the world,
the other drifts through dream-bound ground.

One hand reaches for the clouds, touching hopes;
the other sinks into the depths of the earth,
finding ancient secrets in sleeping roots.

So I slow my steps,
and let my gaze be led
to stone and stem, to leaf and thread.
The world is not in haste,
nor am I, instead.

Perhaps, I wonder, a trace of me remains on this land,
perhaps the wind bears it from my hand
across the sand,
like a footprint already erased,
quietly, unplanned.

And yes, I know I am not endless, after all.
Perhaps I am a merry idler,
and that is simply all.

The Paths I’ve Wandered

I walk the roads no map remembers,
through secret paths lost in the mist of time,
from day into night.

Where wildflowers whisper their old tales,
and shadows speak with dreams along the paths,
there I find myself again,
in the place where the wind knows my name.

I wander through the depths of forests,
and rest
in the cool shades
where springs sing.

I hum my song to the meadows, 

to the quiet hearts of trees;

I scatter it to wandering spirits of the clouds, 

to the sleeping mountains and their hidden dreams.

Sometimes I walk for no reason,
simply because something within me moves,
and I follow where it leads.

With every step I take,
a sleeping song awakes.

Beyond the misty hills
its echo softly shakes.

The wild’s old magic
from forgotten years
drifts upon the wind,
and whispers in my ears.

Every hollow
keeps a sealed secret.

Every leaf shelters
a silent trace.

Each forgotten corner
cradles a tale once told,
then softened with age.

Ancient olive trees
keep secrets old and deep,

majestic oaks
their whispered legends sweep.

Some hide within
the morning mist,
perhaps awaiting to be found.

Some fade
in the shadows of the night,
and never again return to sight.

From Dawn to Velvet Night

From dawn to velvet night
the paths keep shifting, traces sway;
with every step,
new stories quietly find their way.

With the first light of day,
let new adventures
begin their stay.

The meadows rise,
wrapped in white,
a tender mist that softens sight.

The footprints of fairies
who danced through the night
still rest on the flowers
hidden in dew,
gleaming bright.

As sunlight grows
and slowly flows
across the waking land,
the secrets, the stories,
the drifting dreams
slip from the morning’s hand.

The mist withdraws
soft and slow,
while dawn sends whispers
down the hollow.

And the day begins
in its gentle tune,
a quiet hum
that drifts toward noon.

While the sun idles slowly through the sky,
its rays fall softly where the leaves lie.

Shadows dance,
and breezes play,
on the forest floor they sway.

To those who listen,
they tell their tales,
in whispers woven through the trails.

And I,

I wait for the golden hours to gleam,
following glimmers in their stream;
sometimes in a wildflower’s crown,
sometimes on a leaf where a dragonfly
settles down,
its golden wing
shining with a quiet sound.

I try to still the flow of time,
through my lens, in silent rhyme.

Holding breath, I do not move,
as twilight hums its tender tune.

At night, the meadows
wear a different face.

A distant growl drifts through the hush.

And know, my friend,
the sounds I hear at night
are no dream,
nor fairy tale.

They are real
as the break of day,
never erased,
never fading away. 😅

Sometimes a fox
glides through the meadow’s dark,
its tail flickers briefly,
then vanishes, swift and stark.

Try to catch it,
quick as flame,
it always hurries,
never the same.

Sometimes a thirsty hedgehog
stirs from sleep,

softly through the shade.

Then too it vanishes
into the velvet night,
its traces lost
to fading light.

If the moon is shy,
I do not step
into the valley.

I walk along its edge,
preserving knowingly
the harmony of dark.

For the night belongs to them,
and I am but a shadow,
a traveler gliding
beneath the silver light.

Sometimes I sit
upon a roadside stone,
photograph the stars,
and drift into dreams alone.

Call it idling if you will!

That is when I ask myself,
Who are we?
Why are we here?
What lies beyond
the Milky Way’s frontier?

I do not fear to ask,
nor tire of seeking,
for it is not the answer
but courage itself
that keeps the inner flame alive.

Stories and Mysteries I Gather Along the Way

Which tales do I gather,
which tiny gleams?

Which dreams,
which whispered secrets
do I keep close to me?

Of course, the ones
I find along my wanderings.

Oddities,
and the odder tales they tell;
quiet wonders
where soft magic dwells.

From every wildflower
I gather a trace,
a secret whisper, a fleeting grace.

Sometimes a thorny bush
will speak to me,
sometimes a bird
sings its own melody.

Some drift away
with the restless breeze,
some stay with me like gentle memories.

And in my notebook’s tender lines,
each one rests, each one shines.

Sometimes I find
a stone, cold blue.
They say, long ago,
on Black Mountain’s view,
a lone dragon flew.

Its fire sank through
the earth’s deep hue;
its ashes grew
into stones we knew.

Now it lies silent, never truly old;
and the rest stays hidden, quiet to hold,
another tale in embers cold. 🌙

Sometimes I find
a hollow nest,
tucked in the olive’s quiet rest;
sometimes it waits upon the ground,
left by the storm the night had found
across the forest floor.

I gather them close,
their silence dear;
each a dream,
each mystery clear.

And perhaps one day,
by chance or chime,
they’ll bloom as tale,
as song, as time. 🌙

What I Carry

My bag is wide,
but when the things I find will not fit,
I tuck them gently, one by one,
into my pockets, bit by bit.

With lavender, thyme, rosemary, and bay.
Each one transforms in olive-oil soaps’ gentle sway.
A true witch’s brew at the end of the day. 🌙🪄

A handful of clay, stone, soil…

I use them all in the making of natural dyes;
with patient, quiet craft
they turn to gentle tones and subtle shades,
waiting for a painter,
resting softly
in an old seashell. 

And sometimes from my pocket slips
a faded olive leaf,
a keepsake from harvest days,
still holding quiet belief,
and gentle memory beneath.

Sometimes a feather wanders by,
black, white, and speckled shy.
From afar I hear that steady song,
tap tap tap, the rhythm strong.
A woodpecker bright in morning light,
working its way up oak and eucalyptus height.

Sometimes, quietly, it appears,
a young oak sprouting at the foot of an ancient tree.

And why, you ask?
I ask as well, as I always do.
Come closer then,
and let me tell the tale anew.

Playful squirrels and clever jays
hide their seeds in secret ways,
beneath the stones, in hollows deep,
where roots and whispers softly sleep.

Preparing for winter, their plans run deep,
each seed tucked close, each trick discreet.
Yet some are lost, forgotten there.
Ah, that is nature’s way, so fair.

Days grow short, the seasons turn,
the rains descend, the soft winds yearn,
and gently to the earth they say,
“It is time.”

And there, in quiet birth,
a tiny oak begins to rise from earth. 🌱

The Sea’s Curiosities

Sometimes I set my sails for new tales.
The south wind brings to the shore
planks shaped in countless ways,
shells, seaweed,
and delicate forms the tides adore.

Time, salt, and waves,
old craftsmen of the sea,
have carved each stone
with quiet artistry.

And sometimes, in drifting sand, I find
a hag-stone with a hollow ring,
its circle thinned by years and tide,
a small worn gate
to what may hide.

And when I gaze through 

its weathered ring,
old whispers rise,
soft as light.

Perhaps a fairy stirs,
perhaps a silver-haired maid
singing her shimmering song
where tides grow bright.

For a moment, in that fragile sight,
there gleams
a lost king deep in the keep,
where secrets rest,
where ancient waters sleep.

I gather them all.
I listen to their lore.

With the ocean’s lullaby they pour
onto the page
in a gentle, glowing roar.

Did Someone Say “Map”?

All right, all right.

Let no feet get lost,
let no steps go astray. :))

Here’s your map
to guide the way.

But no,
let’s not call it a map.

Perhaps only a compass.
It points not north,
but softly teaches us
to slow our pace.

Here, paths open
not with lines,
but with tales.

Each corner hides a secret,
each page shelters a dream.

To see all doors,
all paths at once,
step through the home page.

There the site map will unfold,
and more beyond. ✨

Or stay a while longer,
and listen once more
to the meadow’s gentle lore.

Closing

And if one day you return to these realms,
the meadow gate rests slightly ajar;
it waits
for footsteps running late,
for travelers wrapped in the night’s gentle shade,
for those who find their way back,
for wanderers not yet called to the road,
and for other quiet tales
that softly kindle
the path ahead.

The hearth stays warm,
casting its gentle glow through night;
the kettle, drowsy,
whispers its final song
into the lingering calm.

And perhaps you will find me
beneath a softened lamp,
a warm cup in my hand,
an open notebook before me,
writing the book
I always longed to read,
quietly. 🌙✨

❓The Final Riddle

If you truly wish
to know my name,
then listen closely.

"In the forest’s depths
a hidden spring lies.

Beneath the oak
it softly sings.

Secrets only
quiet hearts may hear,
it whispers gently,
along with its name."

Ah, the simplest riddle of all,
woven with a little mystery,
and a little song of words. :))

If you’ve found the answer,
write it down
and say hello to me.

And if you like,
you may ask me, too,
a riddle in return. 🍃

🌙 Namárië...
Until we meet again beneath starlit skies.