GINNY SPINNAKER

She could magic up rainbows without e’er the need for rain.
A double, if you dared her, and promised ne’er to mention her name.
She could charm the birds down from distant trees
And have them chirrup descants above the low drones of bees.
But, above all, she was a story-teller with a small library of books
Concealed within her rust-coloured cloak - just big enough to safely shield a small truant
Away from nature’s harm or an ogreish child-catcher’s looks!

She educated ‘the unteachables’ through her stories and her songs.
With a flick of her wrist, her books became a squeeze-box and she’d sing at the top of her lungs.
The cows and sheep would all gather round until her long hair was an orb of fiery red.
Entertained children would scuttle home for supper, then wearily off to bed.
She would disappear at the hoot of an owl or the screeching of a bat.
Re-appearing later in a childhood dream, only young ones would ever see her.
None could ever remember her stories or her tunes, but they knew the colours of the rainbow and other useful stuff like that.