Boone and the Bard

The bard lay dead a hundred years,
His name worn off the stone.
Last night, I heard his song again.
I was not quite alone.

In life, he feared his songs would fade,
That none would know his name.
He met a god called Boone one night,
Who offered him a game.

Boone was a trickster, old and sly,
With gifts that hid a cost.
The bard believed he’d beat the god
Where other men had lost.

“And now” the trickster whispered
As he grinned unto the bard:
“I present my most elusive trap,
A simple game of cards.”

“We’ll each draw once. The highest wins.
Win, and this deck is yours.
Lose, and you’ll sing for me alone,
Behind my locked hall doors.”

Boone drew a king. The bard, an ace.
“You win,” the trickster said.
The bard picked up his painted prize.
Boone smiled and bowed his head.

The cards showed trees and horned beasts,
A moon that seemed to stare.
The bard could almost hear their songs,
Though silence filled the air.

That night he wrote of how he’d won,
Of Boone’s unlucky draw.
He sang and held the cards up high.
The crowd called out for more.

He sang of all the painted worlds
And how he’d won them fair.
His listeners saw those worlds unfold
As though they stood right there.

But every song contained one verse,
And each verse named the god.
Soon people sang of Boone at home,
And on every road they trod.

To sing his name invited Boone
Across the singer’s door.
He came at night into their homes,
As he had planned before.

The bard stopped singing, shut the pack,
And warned them of the song.
But those who’d heard had taught their friends,
Who passed the song along.

The children drew their own small decks
And learnt each tale by heart.
The bard could put his cards away;
He could not stop their art.

He grew old hearing his own songs
And wished they’d fade away.
They sang them at his funeral.
They sing them still today.

The bard had won his game with Boone,
Just as the god had planned.
Now Boone awaits another voice,
Another willing hand.