Dreams led them on

There were campfires,

Gyres of blaze,

when men would speak

their great deeds

Of the hunt

that day

the story

would stray.

In gesticulating

arm waving

whooping spurts

of life-stuff

The hunter-king

armed his men

with vision.

Were they not kin

to him?

But one was there

not quite listening

but quiet

remembering

A fancier tale

he heard

than the hunter

did tell.

In dreams

embellished word

was formed

a poet born

So that

eventually

the hunters tale

was never enough

And deeds

of an illusory sort

filled the men

As dreams led them on.