He often wonders where it comes from this need to tell stories;
there is nothing in his upbringing or schooling
to give a hint, he can hardly write it is a struggle to find the grammatically right word.
He thinks of water trickling up from the ground running
along the stony earth on a mountainside, falling on a lemon tree,
beautifully yellow fruit, not for the roses.
Sometimes the well dries, little rain has fallen, the groundwater
is hidden in a deep cave and he accepts that,
the world changes, but he has always got the almond tree
while waiting for the sound of trickling water.