I walk the corridors in my mind
wandering just what may be that I may find
hidden among the debris there
just fallen, tumbled, but laid bare.
Or what lays hid behind the tall dark door
of debris strewn will I find more?
But no – beyond the statues hewn
and busts and fragments fallen strewn –
the room has no ceiling and – I say –
lies not empty, but filled with hay!
And there behind a large hay bale
so dark in contrast one can’t fail
so see it shining in its own dark way
a spinning wheel amongst the hay.
And what is this fine golden thread
strewn round the room of hay instead?
Just who might do the spinning in
the dark each night – Rumpelstiltskin?
But while he works what debt be paid
for these riches magic made?
