And in the clearing, a father teaches his son about the Jabberwock,

a beast with gleaming jaws and claws, which in the son’s mind, gleam

like the gleaming sword. And the lovingly polished gleaming sword

leans on the tree between them, leans on the tree in the centre

of the clearing where the son learns to recognise the song of the Jubjub bird,

and how to track the Bandersnatch, and how to polish the sword to a fine gleam.

And as the father spins his stories, the son finds his mind carried

again and again around to that gleaming sword at the centre of that clearing,

to the central tree where the sword leans,

to the shadows that circle it in the shift from day to night and back to day.

And the sword gleams from the shifting shade, flashes light then dark then light again.

“Beware my son! Beware! Beware and shun, my son,” the father says.

And then one day, son takes the father’s tales with his own taking of the sword.

Away the son, away. Away the son, we’re told.

The son aways just to return, galumphing back from the tulgy wood,

and in those hands the meaty head, his vorpal prize, it’s eyes that burn,

those precious jaws and claws. Calooh Callay. Away Away.

And in the clearing where the gleaming sword once gleamed, the father waits

alone, amongst the carcasses of Bandersnatch and Jubjub bird.

The heads of Jabberwock.

Another day, callooh, callay. Just waiting for the son’s return.

Waiting each day to cry out at his return, with eyes that watch and arms that raise.

Those precious jaws of his, those claws of his.

Callooh, Callay. Each day as frabjous as the last.