When the Trickster
(what trickster, which trickster?
Coyote, Anansi, the Harlequin,
Lady Eris?)
who knows?
who cares?
When the Trickster stole the first song,
the Gods were wroth.
They spun fire
(ANOTHER stolen thing!)
and whipped smoke
and generated the great waves
which lifted Atlantis to the stars
(you thought Atlantis sank?
That’s exactly what They want you to think.)
And they yelled and bellowed and raced down the great Mountain into the lands of Mortals,
howling,
keening,
swearing,
past
(but not into)
the villages and towns,
through the caves of glyph and silhouette,
past the Valley of Shadow
(well: near enough;
nobody really knows where
the Valley of Shadow is)
until they collapsed,
laughing,
at the feet of the thief,
who herself laughed,
plied them with wine,
and sang with them;
for all songs are stolen,
and it is the reshaper,
the word-wrestler,
the listener,
the lover and the critic
which give shape to Song,
and you can’t really steal
what no-one can truly grasp,
so pass the jug,
and let the voices cascade.
