Ruby, aged 9, says:
“When Daddy tells a story, it sinks into my heart
-it’s always as though he’s playing on some bewitched harp.
It sinks into my soul like a stone thrown into a river
And when I go to bed, the story begins to slither…”
(If I can become half as good a storyteller as she is a poet, I reckon I’ll be doing o.k.)
