The old man climbed on the carousel
with trembling step and slow.
No one who watched him standing there
could be expected to know
The depth of his love for the charming beasts
who waited in stately stride;
To carry the children on their backs,
a token for a ride.
He chose a seat on a chariot
pulled by a prancing fawn,
And smiled as the children laughed and waved
to their parents on the ground.
The organ commenced a rousing tune,
the creaking giant stirred.
The old man’s eyes grew misty and soft
and he spoke, though no one heard.
“I shaped you with care and my hands still know
the dimensions of every line.
How it feels to follow the tangled curve
of mane and trappings fine.
They call me a master carver I hear.
They marvel how a man could know
Enough to bring such creatures to life
and set them spinning so.
I wonder what they’d think if they knew
my amazement matches their own.
That I marvel myself at the magic I wrought;
the beauty of grace and form!”
The ride waltzed on to the cadence sweet
as the old man dreamed and dozed.
And no one knew who rode that day
on a gilded chariot throne.
Illions, Dentzel, Muller, Carmel?
Were they all dreaming there?
Or was it Morris, Parker or Louff,
Herschel, Zoller or Dare?
We never know who rides with us
and shares our world so fair.
What memories flow from a carver’s hand
and drift on the summer air.
But those who love the carousel
know a secret shared by few.
That each carver rides the carousel
as surely as we do
The music stopped, the ponies paused,
the laughing children ran
To waiting arms and other rides
and no one saw the man
As he walked into the afternoon
with trembling step and slow.
No one but the ponies
who whinnied a soft, “Farewell!”
c.2011 Donna Swanson
