This poem is from the December 4, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from pickledginger. It has been sponsored by Anthony & Shirley Barrette. This poem belongs to the series One God's Story of Mid-Life Crisis, which you can explore further via the Serial Poetry page.
Shaeth and Trobby were walking to the tavern
when they spied a group of children
playing Hit or Missile
in an empty lot.
One team created small balls of magic
while the other created magic-seeking missiles
and tried to pop the balls.
"It looks like the seekers are winning,"
Shaeth mused. He approved of their aim.
"I always wanted to play that game,"
Trobby said wistfully,
"but only the children of mages
usually have enough magic for that.
I never had any."
"Well, you have magic now,"
Shaeth said. "Here, you form the missile like this ..."
He wrapped his arms around the little priest and
carefully fitted the spellcraft into his soul,
just like stringing a bow.
"Then you aim like this ... and let go ..."
Shaeth fired the missile across the empty street
and neatly popped one of the balls.
"You're too old!"
"You can't play with us!"
the children protested.
"You will let Trobby play," Shaeth said sternly,
"or I will turn you all into a parcel of frogs
and give you to him for target practice."
He was joking.
But they let Trobby play.
Trobby was terrible, of course;
it took a great deal of practice
to learn the trick of magic-seeking missiles.
When they finally made it to the tavern,
though, Trobby was grinning
and he ordered soft cider instead of hard
so it was worthwhile after all.
Sometimes, Shaeth mused to himself,
second chances do come along.