I stand beside the wrought iron railings of the gate, that as a child barred my way.
I had often contemplated the thought of scaling the walls,
If only to satisfy my inherent curiosity of what lays beyond.
And yet the stories my Father told me held me steadfast,
Not of the stories themselves,
But of a fear in finding them not to be true.
Now, years later, and I stand with the key.
Freedom to delve deep within the realm of pixies and fairies,
Delight in the swamp where trolls bathed,
And marvel at the wondrous maze guarded by a three headed snake.
I kept the key in my pocket and peered between the railings as I once did as child.
I was convinced I could hear mischievous laughter and distant sound of gloopy splashing.
Even on the breeze the hiss of a curious wary snake.
I walked away not entering.
Those stories my Father told me remained unsolved as truth or fiction.
But then that was the beauty of it.
They all lived in my head, and maybe, just maybe beyond the gate too.