And so, within the mind of man,
The cauldron spits.
Then births the sprite
Capable of freedom
From confining earth.
Scattered papers on the floor
A ball of string
To take the strain
A pot of paste
For thin shaved wood.
Soon, up upon a wind swept moor,
A boy is taken.
Holding fast the token
Of his father's love
And childhood memories.
First heard, screams of delight.
Then flowing tears,
As the sprite tears
The grip and soars aloft
To dance with the clouds.
Irene C S ClarkHogg
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dancing-with-the-clouds/
