Home Page     Schedule     Catalog     Bios     Gallery      Projects      Electronic Press Kit     YouTube

Short Stories
All stories written & © by John Good

Return to John Good     Poetry     Articles

Welcome to the Short Story Archive

In the spirit of the season, "Once upon a Star" is a gift for every child, young or old.

You can also listen to "Once upon a Star" a Christmas story

Story Title

Rainy Reunion in Tenby
Dylan’s Daughter, the Walrus and Old Town Aberafan
Once upon a Star a Christmas story

Nov. 2016
Dec. 2014
Dec. 2012  (listen to the story, 6:30)

Rainy Reunion in Tenby

The yearly cycle turns around Glangaea, the old Welsh New Year, at the beginning of November.  The ancients would fix their gaze on Caer Arianrhod--The Corona Borealis--hoping to catch a glimpse of the entrancing goddess, as she sat at her silver spinning wheel, gracefully spinning their earthly fate. Spirits were abroad and the long winter darkness, already manifest, called for bonfires, ritual and reassurance, in a fragile, often casually temperamental world. They would look again to the skies around Glanmai--Mayday--but this time with much greater hope in their hearts at the promise of lengthening days of life-giving light. If, like the spinner, they could have travelled time, in that early November sky, they might have fleetingly caught a different silver glimmering, the very distant, outstretched wings of a Boeing 747-400, as it imperceptibly lowered its nose, after passing over Taliesin’s Rheged--Strathclyde.  Making its way south above the ancient kingdoms of Elmet and midland Britain, it safely touched down in 21st Century Heathrow Airport.

A speedy London Underground run, then the familiar Paddington-South Wales train, seemed to quietly and smoothly anticipate the waiting family the other side of Cardiff, on Port Talbot Parkway Station. Making good time to and through the tunnel and, although bathed in rapidly fading evening light, the characteristic and comforting hills of Gwent, then Sir Forgannwg held out welcoming Welsh arms. Home was now a reality, hireath--homesickness--a remnant of then. Croeso i Gymru--Welcome to Wales!

The advantages of living six thousand miles away from your origins are legion, as are the disadvantages. One of the more interesting advantages is the built-in ability to time travel. Yes, seriously! No need of the teeming imagination and mechanical aptitude of H.G. Wells. No need of magical caves, dream worlds, psychedelic tunnels or worm holes; just five or more years of separation and the ebb and flow of human tides. Now, read on for the revelation.

As we observe, so we are observed, with the inevitable process of aging, gracefully or not, easily read in the open pages of our tearful, smiling faces. To see someone beloved and be seen by them, with intervening years, is to indeed travel time.  Reconciliation with a long estranged close relative is heartwarming, yet the ravages are sadly shocking enough to insist that you yourself look into the mirror and hope it will show more compassion. Even more striking, to see new family additions: a babe in arms with familiar features, "Doesn’t she look a lot like..."; a slightly older child, "Reminds me a lot of him when he first..."; "She’s got the attitude of a young so and so!"

John's extended family in Wales

Sometimes those too-rapidly-growing cherubs go to the same school and even the same classroom where you yourself window-dreamed. Yes, the wheel is always in spin but, even for a brief spell, you become that smiling, sing-song rhyming, chiming child in the playground again, vicariously young. Perhaps a six-month-old infant’s casual gesture, facial expression, outstretched hand is a duplicate of an older uncle or aunt. They are, in a sense, one and the same, just at different points on the curve of our earthly continuum. And so it was this time, as it has always been and always will be, an opportunity for all to visit with the great sweep of generations, in the comfortable front room parlour of a small industrial town.

To top of next column.


Even the rain is somehow familiar here, in this smoky old borough.  It reminds the prodigal visitor that November on the coastal plain of Bae Abertawe--Swansea Bay--has a geographical signature; characteristically lashing the gray stone walls, windows and slate roofs devoid of wise Jackdaws. But, solace for a traveller’s flagging soul, on a bacon, fried bread and black-puddinged morning, during a steak and kidney pied lunch, or haddock and chipped Friday teatime treat, all is warm, well and beyond reach of re-gathering gray clouds and threatening gales.

Intermittent gusts and squalls were certainly there, the following rainy Monday in Tenby Town. Dinbych y Pysgod--Tenby of the Fish--is a Norman-walled town, replete with castle,  smugglers’ caves, squabbling  gulls, nets, boats, anchors, ropes and enough mythic and poetic license to be itself a tall tale. It is a place to engage all the senses; salty to the taste, it had the smell, touch and ambient sound of a wind and rain swept Pembrokeshire sea town. It is ever a harbour for those long at sea, the perfect place for reunion.  

Tenby rock in the fog

The last time of meeting this long lost friend was his twenty first birthday in Ynysybwl, Cwm Rhondda.  Growing up, there had been many occasions of music making, larking, drinking cider, laughing and day dreaming... you know the kind of things teenagers did forty odd years ago, and yes, still and will always do. Sitting in the bay window of The Buccaneer Inn, with the wood fire keeping out the chill, there was a sense of "What will it be like to see and be seen down the wrong end of a telescope?" The sixties were a lifetime before; washed away, gone, almost as if they had happened to someone else. Something dreamt, scenes from a subtitled foreign film.  Would we recognize... know each other? Would we like what we saw... the look of one another? What would be said? What was there to say?

After a long tearful embrace, fears went the way of the fallen rain, guttering down to the invigorated sea. Age certainly showed its fascinating and frightful imprint, but friendship--true friendship--showed no sign of weakening, let alone disappearing. Maybe it had even enlivened with time and travel. Conversation was as brisk as the keen wind off the bay, while the two hour run of our brief encounter was spinning at the speed of the goddess’ wheel. First there were the fifteen-minute, forty-year personal digests, then the "Do you remember such and such... so and so?"; "He did well"; "V married W"; "X retired years ago"; "Y made a big splash in London Town"; "Z was never the same..." Email, network and mobile numbers exchanged, promises made, and just like that, the bay window looked out on an empty, rainy Tenby cobblestone street. The world had silently turned. Time had moved on... once again.

Looking out of another window at around thirty five thousand feet, heading back over Rheged, shell-shocked head spinning, you might have wondered if a time-travelling Taliesin had caught a glimpse of the Boeing from the ground, as he scanned the sky for a sighting of Arianrhod at her wheel.  Then the realization would dawn. Glangaea or not, and even though you can, there is no need to time travel, if you have never left the May Day of your days. The spirit of Glanmai is, after all, at home in the heart--in the abode of the soul--and beyond the ceaseless turning of the silver spinning wheel.

Dylan’s Daughter, the Walrus and
Old Town Aberafan

Based on a legend heard in John's youth.     

Did you ever walk out along the old wooden pier near the mouth of the River Afan? It was pulled down a long time ago, but do you remember before it was rebuilt of concrete and steel after a century of September high tides had almost washed it away?

Photo of old pier at Aberafan

Well, early one fair summer morning, cyn codi cwn Caer, before the dogs of Chester had risen, I should have been at school learning about Pythagoras and geometry instead of discreetly skipping down the riverside path, past the Little Warren and mud banks on my way fishing. A short time after casting the line out, as I was whistling my lucky fishing song, I heard something unusual. Well, in truth, I heard a string of sounds perfectly imitating my song–note for note–but faint and bittersweet, as if a quiet and sad, pleasant echo. Strangest of all, it wasn’t a whistling sound answering, but something like the sound of a flute–for it was indeed a flute–materializing like a musical apparition a stone’s throw past the end of the old pier; harmonics rising like a sea mist from somewhere deep beneath the play of the waves! For a good while, time stood Sunday still and then imperceptibly, the seagull cries and the rise and fall of the sea licking the barnacled pilings washed into my ears again. I tried whistling a couple of times after that without hearing any answering melodic dialogue from the sea, but now my lucky-charm song was a tad more pensive.

That evening, as I lay in bed, flashbacks of that fair summer morning made me wonder if I’d been adrift on some sort of tidal daydream or if there had truly been music and magic in the tide and I had witnessed a real life wonder. I didn’t say anything to anyone, but the next day, cyn codi cwn Caer, before the dogs of Chester had risen, when I should have been in school studying Pythagoras and right-angled triangles, I was standing outside the town library waiting for the key to turn in the lock and the ‘Closed’ sign turn to ‘Open’. There was a genuinely surprised look on the librarian’s face. “Good morning Sioni, no school today?” she asked. “No Miss Jones, I need to take a look in the local interest section for stories about old Aberafan Town and mysterious sounds coming from under the sea. I’m writing an essay for the Calan Gaeaf, Halloween issue of the student’s magazine” I casually lied without blinking an eye. “Oh” said she, “you’re so lucky. Just arrived yesterday is the book collection of old Mr. Dafis, Cwmafan. He was a sailor, but when he retired he had taken an interest in the history and stories of the Afan district, until recently–in extreme old age–he went to live with family in Abertawe, insisting that his books and manuscripts stay with the people of Aberafan Town. Come along with me.”

Photo banner of upper balustrades of library facade

Well, inside the dusty basement, down the back stairs behind the main reading room, were mound upon moldy mound of very old and threadbare, graying books; some tied together with string, others in cardboard boxes, but the majority scattered sang-di-fang, willy-nilly, all over the shop. “Sorry about the mess” she said “I don’t have time to keep up with all the kind gifts from the Friends of the Library. Over there under the window, on the wooden table are Dafydd Dafis’ books. Oh! And there’s also a sea chest llawn dop, full to bursting with his papers and bric-a-brac. Lwcus Da, Good luck!” said Mrs. Jones over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs leading back up to the neat and well-lit main reading room.

After a couple of minutes staring in a fog over the rolling hills and dales of books and papers, Pythagoras and the square on the hypotenuse were beginning to appear a lot more attractive than usual, but as my mother always said “Deuparth gwaith ei ddechrau. The start is two parts the work”. I sat at the wooden table and began going over the landscape of frail and fragile, venerable books in the weak light of the street-level window half way up the damp basement wall. After an hour or more, at the point of rhoi’r ffidl yn y to, hanging the fiddle in the eaves, in a dark corner by the radiator, I came across the travel-weary sea chest–a story in itself–smelling of untold sea-voyages, salt-sea spray and memorable midnights in exotic sea ports. Unfastening the weathered leather straps, inside I came across seemingly numberless bundles of handwritten, yellowing papers tied with brittle green, blue and red ribbons. Toward the bottom of everything I found some kind of small white flute; a flute made out of bone or ivory, covered with mysterious scrolls and shell-like scrimshaw and discolored by perhaps hundreds of spindrifting years.

Putting the flute in my pocket and untying yet another crumbling blue ribbon I read: “Tales and Beliefs of our Forefathers, collected by Capt. Dafydd Dafis, Cwmafan.” Once again Pythagoras didn’t have a hope in Hades; not a friend in the world. I began reading the old Captain’s prologue:
Generation after generation have heard these stories from their grandfathers and fathers until I heard them in my turn at my own father’s knee. Having neither daughter nor son, I must entrust them to fortune and fate and the rip-tides of time and hope that, like driftwood, they’ll wash up on a welcoming shore.
There were lots of appealing stories in the collection, but one chapter was especially bell-ringing: “Bedd Dyfrllyd yr Hen Dref, Watery Grave of the Old Town.” Well, I was ar bigau’r drain, on tenterhooks, anxious and hopeful of solving yesterday’s harmonic mystery. I read on …
Amser maith yn ôl … A long, long time ago, when dear old Wales was still at play on the unhurried playing fields of her youth, our local coastline would have looked extremely strange to you and me and anyone familiar with Aberafan today. To tell the truth, there was no coastline there at all, but a long green valley leading down away through meadows and glens through the old Afan Wood then on to the distant beach and the sea; a slender quicksilver thread glinting cheerily in the far, far beyond. In the middle of the valley, on the river bank, was Old Aberafan Town with its round thatched houses, simple wooden church, little school hut, earthen market square and our forefathers busily going about their daily lives in sunshine and rain. An ideal picture, isn’t it? But without warning everything was about to change … forever.

Well, early one fair summer morning when he should have been in school learning about Merlin, Taliesin and Ceridwen’s cauldron instead of going fishing, a small lad named Jac was discreetly skipping down the riverside path, past the Little Warren and the mud banks toward the sandy beach. Just after casting his line out, mid melody, he stopped whistling his lucky-charm fishing song, hearing something unusual. It was a sound like someone softly crying–for it was indeed the sound of crying–coming very faintly from a tide pool, a stone’s throw along the chattering shore.

Jac approached the pool on all fours, carefully, but without fear, and looking over the edge–Bobl bach, wonder of wonders–there was a small and very pretty girl, with what looked like a mermaid’s tail–for she was indeed a mermaid–sitting there in the shallow water looking exceedingly sad and alone. Time and tide stood completely still for a good while, then the seagull cries and the sound of the sea washing up on the shore filled Jac’s ears again.

“Can I help you?” Jac asked shakily. “Oh, please!” said she, “My name is Hafwen, Fair Summer. I was caught in this pool by the turn of that mischievous prankster, Tide. He’s been so wicked since Walrus went away to the Land of the Summer Stars. I need to get back to my father Dylan’s realm, beneath the sea or there will be no chance of my days being carefree again!” “Don’t worry” said Jac rising to the occasion, “I’ll straight away put you back in the surf”. And with that, he gently picked up the girl and because she was very small, as delicate as lace and extremely beautiful, he very carefully carried her back toward the sea.

Jac had fallen instantly and hopelessly head over horseshoes in love, but on reaching the water’s edge and being asked if he wanted to go with her to her father Dylan’s palace, there was still enough sense left in his love-muddled mind to say “Diolch ond dim diolch, thanks but no thanks, my mam will be making dinner very shortly and she’ll worry if I’m not there first before everyone else.” “Well” said she,” come back tomorrow, I’m sure my father will want to give you a very special gift; a gift that’ll set that prankster straight! Hwyl am y tro, bye for now.” And with a playful flourish of her shimmering tail, Hafwen, by far the prettiest girl in all the world, disappeared in a sparkle beneath the merry dancing foam.

That evening, as he lay in bed, memories of that hazy morning caused Jac to wonder if he had been adrift in some sort of summery daydream or if there had truly been fair loveliness and magic at the water’s edge and he had witnessed a real life wonder. He didn’t say anything to anyone but the next day, early in the morning, cyn codi cwn Caer, before the dogs of Chester had risen, he should have been in school learning about Merlin and King Arthur’s adventures in Annwn, The Underworld, instead of skipping down the riverside path, past the Little Warren and mud banks toward the sandy shore. There was more than a song thrush of a flutter under his breast to see Hafwen, by far the most beautiful girl in all and every imaginable world; and perhaps to meet her father Dylan, King of the Seven Seas!
Man in distance, as fog burns off on beach
Well, after skipping flat pebbles out across the chuckling shallows, impatiently waiting for what seemed like a lifetime, not far from Hafwen’s tidal pool, of a sudden a mountain of water rose frighteningly close to Jac on the shore. It would have been very easy to lose heart, turn, and run back to the town, but when Hafwen herself swam to the water’s edge, somehow all was becalmed and well with Jac again. “Don’t worry” she said smiling, “my father is anxious to thank you.” And with that, from the middle of the liquid hill, there was Dylan Eil Don–Dylan of the Second Wave, Arianrhod’s son–striding toward the shore. Even after returning home to Old Aberafan Town, it was just about impossible for Jac to describe Brenin y Weilgi, The King of the Deep. His face, hair, beard and his entire enormous body was like seaweed or a shoal of fish flowing and churning constantly in eddies. Only his penetrating blue-green eyes stood solstice still. He was Arctic, Antarctic, Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans incarnate; the embodiment of the salt crystal empire that circles the world; the aquamarine and pelican gray that balances the earthen and apple green hills. 
Diolch o Galon. Thanks from the bottom of my heart for saving my favourite daughter, Hafwen” said he in a voice as deep as seven hundred seas. “Despite your wish to remain on dry land, I will give a very special gift to you, a walrus tusk flute. This tusk belonged to my most dear friend Walrus, past Master of the Tide, who for some time past has been basking on the Isle of Avalon shore, in the Land of the Summer Stars.” It was easy for Jac to sympathize with this huge man, and he was quite sure he saw a small blue-green tear in his whale-sized eyes. “Well then,” said Dylan recovering his natural tranquility, “every morning think of my daughter Hafwen, the prettiest girl in all the world, swimming cheerfully and carefree in my kingdom under the sea and play a happy and feather-light melody on the flute. A response, as if an echo, will come from a great distance beneath the waves. Then the tide will turn and begin covering the sand. With the evening, think of my daughter so far away from you at sea and play a slow and sad, lonely melody. An answer, as if an echo, will come from a great distance beneath the waves, then the tide will turn and ebb away. But remember Jac, from today on, like Walrus before you, you are now Master of the Tide; the artful, mischievous prankster Tide.” And suddenly without another word, as they had come, Dylan and daughter disappeared leaving not a ripple on the surface of the embracing sea.

Now, Jac was in a trance of disbelief, but anxious to see if the precious gift was really going to work. So without pausing a second, he raised the ivory flute to his lips and played while thinking of Hafwen, the prettiest girl in all and every imaginable world and–Bobl bach, wonder of wonders–he heard a sound as if an echo–note for note–rising from a great distance under the waves. And looking down, the salt sea had already begun running over his sandals. Then, playing a slow and sad, lonely melody, thinking of Hafwen so very far away, and hearing a note for note answer as if an echo, the mischievous tide started to retreat toward the fathomless ocean deep.

Well, Jac was in his element: “I am now Master of the Tidal Flow of Ynys y Cedryn, Isle of the Mighty!” he boasted, but would his swelling pride and joy last?

For many years to come, Jac happily played for the rise and fall of the local tides, and even some May and mid-summer dances, weddings and those sadder occasions of the Aberafan community. But one fair September morning, after playing the tide on its way in, Jac rowed his fishing coracle down the river past the little Warren, the mud banks and out onto the sparkling blue morning swells. It was going to be a harvest moon that night–everyone knows how fine the fishing will be on a day when the moon is full–but Jac was sadly singing:

   ‘R wy’n ishte yma ’sgetyn

        Sitting here, I patiently wait,

   Yn cisho dal pysgotyn:

        To catch a salmon, cod or skate

   Ond nid yw’r gwr â’r gynffon fflat

        But the flat-tailed man must know
        my plan;

   Yn tynnu at y mwytyn.

        He shows no interest in taking the bait.

But with the evening, the waters began to bubble and squeak like split pea soup, and Jac was kept very, very busy–fel ladd nadroedd, as if killing snakes–hooking and landing slippery eels, bass and every kind of silvery fish for hours on end. When everything had calmed down again, the harvest moon was high in the starry night sky. Gradually the sound of very distant bells fell on his ears. “That’s an odd thing” he said, “They must be holding a late service tonight.” Looking through moonlight at the faraway coast said he, “I think I must have drifted out for a while, the land seems so far… O, DARO, Oh, NO!

He’d forgotten to play for the turn of the tide. In an instant Jac was rowing toward the shoreline with one hand, â nerth deg ewin, with the strength of ten talons, while at the same time with the other hand, trying to play the scrimshaw flute sadly and softly. He was pretty sure, all the while, he heard the prankster Tide laughing just under his boat. “My mother always told me, Jac, you’ll be late for your own funeral one of these days. Pay attention!” But all was in vain. Old Aberafan Town had slipped beneath the giggling foam, leaving only a whirlpool of wooden bowls, beds, hats and every imaginable kind of household goods, waltzing in the moonlight on the slowly spinning sea. Jac was to blame but, Diolch Duw, thank heavens, all the people and animals from the town had swum to dry land and after a while, the high Tide stopped laughing and stood–I’ve had my fun–still.

Jac had to sleep on his own in the dark and dank Oakwood for a while, but when winter came he was forgiven by most of his kind neighbours and allowed to go home. Years later, when Jac had children of his own, after many a Sunday dinner they would sit at his knee and beg him to tell them over and over about Dylan’s Daughter–easily the prettiest girl in all the world–and the lesson learned, that was the true gift, from the wise old sea.
Aberafan was rebuilt twice more over the years; each time further inland, away from that mischief-maker Tide. And despite the little walrus tusk flute having been faithfully passed down from generation to generation, finally washing up in a weather-beaten sea chest, next to a radiator, near a wooden table in the weak light of a street-level window, in a dusty basement downstairs from the reading room of the new town library–despite all of this–nevermore would the flute player be master of the prankster tides of Ynys y Cedryn, Isle of the Mighty.

3 boats near the mouth of the Afon Afan

But, if you ever walk out along the pier at the mouth of the River Afan, cyn codi cwn Caer, before the dogs of Chester have risen, on some fair morning of a harvest moon,  when you should be at school learning about Stephen Hawking, Space-Time and The Grand Design, instead of squandering your own precious time pondering simpleminded legends like this; perhaps you’ll see a young lad sitting by the barnacled pilings, from time to time casting out into the giggling Tide, sometimes playing a soft and sad, lonely song.  And a strange thing, you may hear a sound like a flute–for a flute it will be–answering his song–note for note–rising like a melodic sea mist from many fathoms deep beneath the play of the waves.

Once upon a Star

                         A Christmas story

They say don’t ever look down when you’re climbing, and I’ve heard you never can step in the same river twice, but it doesn’t matter anyway as everyone knows, you can’t go back - in time that is. Though when the serene evening sky keeps its promise of snow; when long awaited visitors are heard unlatching the garden gate and the star - the one that’s been seen near Solstice for generations - reassuringly shines in its wine-violet setting, I feel a gentle tug at my sleeve; find myself drawn quietly back; willingly led along the gray-green shadow of a pencil-traced path, through the old-growth,  mistletoed wood; time after time out of mind falling like acorns, mile piling on mile like leaves littering the rhyming river run. And then, at last, to arrive in sight of the gas-lit, silver, terraced street, to cross that scalloped, shoe polished step; on through that ever open front door that gestures toward the welcoming hearth, warm hands and vivid living vision; restoration of many a long-lost late December; long gone but unforgotten.

In and out of the tub, soap scrubbed, shampooed and towel rubbed dry, pajama strings tied by patient, practiced hands, giggling brothers and sisters chase their little cousin up the apple-and-pear stairs to share beds top-to-tail, lying like sardines in their feather-lined tin. Slowly, wriggling and jiggling crest fall and ebb; tired rag dolls take their rag doll rest; dreaming toy soldiers loose the battle for sleep. And the old stone house settles down to its well-earned ease.

Listen. Come closer to the hearth. These many-a-winter weathered walls, ancient, oak eaves and rooftop tiles made with good Welsh slate will tell you tales; tales gathered from bygone and aging generations.

Smoke from the embering, overnight fire silently climbs inside the blackened chimney bricks, coils up, up and out of sight and sound and lightly is lost into this clear, crystal night: A once-upon-a-time metaphor for those good lives and lifetimes, once upon a star.

Drawing of the Christmas hearth

To top of next column.

You can also listen to "Once upon a Star".   

And how about you? On the evening of the eve, did it ever snow, make for a doubly-enchanted new day?  Did you write your name, draw pictographs on ice-laced, foggy window panes? Did the lake, starting at its wintery, frogless edges, glass over overnight? Overnight, did unseen hands make frozen fingers out of twigs on leafless lifeless trees? That morning, did you and your school friends leave a thousand footprints on paths and pavements on the way to the park? Play winter Olympic Games on playing fields a million miles from fleetingly completely forgotten schools, their gates forever locked, except for times like these? Or, when the weak winter sun helped clear the streets, with scarf and thick breath streaming like a steam train over hunched-over shoulders, did you peddle like the Devil on your bright new bike; make rutted, pimpled tire tracks through muddy puddles of slush; bell ringing, wheels singing, friend following friend, stumbling and tumbling all over the chattering town?  

Listen. Come closer now. There’s still the after image; echo memory of that rushing river of voices as it washed along back alleys and flooded light filled lanes. Listen! Come closer to the fire, the old house is settling down to listen to your tales.

And do you remember those early-teenage late Decembers; last day of school before the mid-winter holidays, when even the grimmest, grumpiest teacher couldn’t help a wry expectant smile as the final bell rang? On the eve of celebration, did you go down to your tinseled caroling town? Wade waist high through full tides of crab-legged shopping bags, bursting with pearls of expectation; everyone swimming in a goodwill sea, while holiday money held in a warm, gloved hand smoldered in your pocket. And did that week of Saturdays never end, waiting for the evening of that anticipated party with its presents, pop, puzzles and games of close encounters; the jewel in the golden crown an innocent kiss under the mistletoe; first kiss that sometimes lasted a lifetime. And if it would only snow, surely the prince would fearlessly scale the impossible tower, rescue the princess from the Ice Queen’s palace, and young romance would grow and grow into sky high drifts: “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

And I know you shouldn’t look down when climbing and no one can step in the same river twice, and everyone knows, you can never ever go back. But when the serene evening sky keeps its promise of snow, long awaited visitors unlatch the garden gate, and that special star shines on a wine-violet Winter Solstice; after listening and thanking you for your wisdom of words and admitting there is surely something lacking in me, you’re going to hear me say: “Nos Da. Good Night. I’ll be on my way back now.”

You can also listen to "Once upon a Star".

Return to John Good     Poetry     Articles     Top of the Page

Home Page     Schedule     Catalog     Bios     Gallery      Projects      Electronic Press Kit     YouTube