The Conqueror Of Europe

It was just after midnight on a clear and cold, starlit autumn night when it all began. The caravan driver was unknowingly leading the young travelers into the making of a myth. It’s not something one can plan for or recognize when it’s unfolding. It just happens. As the speeding wood paneled horses pulled the passengers closer, and closer to the ill fated right hand turn that would lead then into the dark harvested fields, and hillsides of a place known to few as Buckingham. They glided over the steel down, submerging in the forest edges thick cold fog. The swaying dim lantern gave little understanding to the swift direction they were going along the upper mountain road, which lade quietly along the creek at the bottom of Gileadhill, in all of the caravan drivers short-longed wisdom. He seemed to have no control of the course and destination of the wooden carriage. I slowly began to form with my seat in the coach as we made our second glide over the steel on Holicong road. We took one last dip in the road before I caught my breath, and started our ascent into the clinging hillside clouds of the night. They laded heavy and thick like witches stow to the wooded incline. A warm soft feeling came over me as I gazed out of the frosted window. I asked the driver if I may sing to speed us on our way, with the encouraging nod he gave me. I knew the answer was yes. It started as a distant thunder, and then I began:

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COME ON OUTSIDE

DON’T FORGET TO PUT ON YOUR LUCKY COAT

THE MOON IS ON OUR SIDE TONIGHT

DON’T FORGET YOUR POCKETS, NO NEED FOR KEYS

YOU SLIP ON DOWN THE HALLWAY STAIRS

DON’T FORGET THE ONE CAN IF YOU CAN

YOU MIX A DRINK FOR THE LONG NIGHT AHEAD

SLIP OUT THE PORCH DOOR, AND YOU’RE GONE

To be continued.......

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