Dreams led them on

There were campfires,
Gyres of blaze,
where 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.