And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees’ antennae,
His knife was a wasp’s blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly’s fan-shaped wing.

And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;

Till it shone like an angel’s feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.

For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird’s eye;

And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,–
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;

With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,–
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.

By Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

Andrew Lang (1844 – 1912)

Inspired by Robert Kirk, author of The Secret Commonwealth of Elves Fauns and Fairies.

By Mark Shapiro

They scatter the armies of the foe,
They ravage every land,
Splendidly they march into battle,
Impetuous, glamourous, avenging host!

No wonder their strength be great:
Sons of Kings and Queens are one and all.
On all their heads are set
Beautiful manes of yellow-gold.

Their bodies comely, smooth,
Their eyes bright, blue-starred,
Pure crystal their teeth,
Thin their red lips.

Good they are at man-slaying.

Irish, 15th Century

Oh what is that in the Hollow?
Oh my, It looks like a Fellow!
There is moss on his teeth,
And vines underneath,
And his skin is a terrible yellow.

By the twilight the forest is scary!
So we followed the track from the dairy.
Then we saw him below,
by the pale moon’s glow,
He was maybe done in by a Faerie?

(A slightly irreverent poem written by Doktor A, inspired by my favourite ever painting, Oh What is That in the Hollow by Edward Robert Hughes…)

by Root Deity Poems

by Root Deity Poems

Maidjey’n phot as ny vuirdyn klarklagh,
Cressad, goggan, jyst as claare,
Ooilley caggey, scryssey dy, sonnaasagh,
Tra vecagh oo cleddit er y laare.

Cred dy jinnagh yn Tarroo-ushtey spottagh,
As yn Ghlashtin oo y ghoalll,
As yn Fenoderee yn glionney, sprangagh,
Cloolesagh y yannoo jeed nol’n voal ?

Finn McCoole, as ooilley e heshaght,
Ferrish ny glionney, as y Vuggane,
Dy lymsagh ad cooidjagh mysh dty lhiabbee,
Eisht role ad lesh oo ayns suggane.

(And now in English:)

What if the chimney-hook and the pot-hook
Should rise up in mad war;
The pot-stick and all the dishes,
All sounding against each other?

The pot stick and the round tables,
Crucible, noggin, dish and bowl,
All fighting, scratching riotously,
When thou wouldst be felled opon the floor.

What if the spotted Water-bull,
And the Glastin would take thee,
And the Fenoderee of the glen, waddling,
To make of thee a bolster against the wall?

Finn McCoole and all his company,
The Fairy of the glen, and the Buggane,
If they would gather together about thy bed,
They would then run off with thee in a straw rope.

Ripples undulated slowly across mirrormere in perfect circles, undisturbed by twig or leaf they inexorably spread to seek the outer bank. Mist there was, and indeed always would be, hanging over the bank- or was it that the bank lay suspended in the mist? One lone tree was all else that braved the shore of mirrormere. Devoid of company the two existed almost out of time. The tree gnarled with age, twisted in slow tortuous war with the mist. Striving to reach the water whose perfect surface was as unaturally smooth as the tree was excessively twisted – both lingering in an ageless fog reminded of the passing of time only by water condensing on a leaf, forming drops and falling … drip, drip

Plink!

The drop shattered. Shocked and stunned it fractured into a thousand smaller drops and covered the bottom of a goblet. A hand stretched from the goblet to a man and to the man the goblet slowly moved. He stood for a moment, contemplating the scene. His dark green eyes captured the shape of the mere, the posture of the tree, and revealed this information to a pristine intelligence housed inside an equally well formed head. Holding the goblet closer to his eye (disturbing as he moved a long rich velvet cloak, emerald green in hue, embroidered with golden runes of great power) and examined the liquid held therein. Then slowly and carefully moistening a finger he transferred a taste to his crimson lips.

Salt, thought he, Then ‘tis true and indeed I have found that which I seek. A tree that doth drip salt water (thus subverting the natural order of distillation) and a mere that is still, yet not clear, concealing all knowledge of it’s depth under a transparent exterior. Ah terrible fate, why hast thou driven asunder two so? Cruel fortune that maketh even trees weep! I shall right this wrong and these two shall unite, e’er long!

Thinking this thought (though in the stillness thoughts were truly as loud as words and one should beware lest they be overheard) he then threw back his hood, letting blond hair fall over his shoulders in a fountain of gold. He raised his hands, and with his index finger drew the sign of power in the air. Blue fire traced from his finger nail as he did so and for a second the symbol stood clear for all creation to bear witness to. This done he sat down exhausted and waited. Waited for the change to take place.
First, but slowly, the mist drew back from the tree and hovered over the mere occluding it from view … while this occurred the tree also experienced change. Branches hardened by age began to bend and in a smooth flowing motion the tree straightened, stretching it’s branches into arms and the twigs fingers, straining after centuries spent in a crouch. The toughened sinews folded across a chest as broad as the trunk once was, as a yawn dies away. Then the man crouched, iron leg muscles tensed to spring – and spring he did, jumping clear into the air and landing easily in front of the mist.

Which draws our attention to the mist! By now it was obvious that the mere had changed and the mist remained only around what had been its centre. As the two men watched, a figure walked forward from the mist, which flexed and followed, forming itself to fit the figure. And such a figure!
Skin as black as ebony covered a firm form, sinuous as the dunes of a southern desert, lips dark as rich red wine toyed with a perpetual smile and forced the observers eye to leave lest they break with contagious joy. Not that there was much escape, for on evading the mouth one encountered her eyes. They shone as a star in a cloudless sky. Piercing with an intensity that could search any soul to its core, but an intensity free from malice or anger. An intensity of Hope realised in Love.

Ubinstral (for we should use the name the man in the cloak was know by) smiled. From his seated position he saw the two embrace. He sighed contentedly as the couple rediscovered the warmth of each others arms, the texture of her dress sending minute sensations through his finger tips, the latent power throbbing from his arm though her touch …

… But then he left, and if one so wise saw good reason for this action, how could we linger?

© 2007 Simon Lidwell

Ev’n with his sugared words, returned to her
The clear remembrance of a gentle voice: -
‘And Oh, my child, should ever a flatterer
Tap with his wares, and promise all joys
And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be;
Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song,
Confuse his magic who is all mockery;
His sweets are death.’ Yet, still, how she doth long
But just to taste, then shut the lattice tight,
And hider her eyes from the delicious sight!

‘What must I pay?’ she whispered. ‘Pay!’ says he,
‘Pedlar I am who through this wood do roam,
One lock of hair is gold enough for me,
For apple, peach, comfits, or honeycomb!’
But from her bough a drowsy squirrel cried,
‘Trust him not, Lettice, trust, oh trust him not!’
And many another woodland tongue beside
Rose softly in the silence – ‘Trust him not!’
Then cried the Pedlar in a bitter voice,
‘What, in the thicket, is this idle noise?’

A late, harsh blackbird smote him with her wings,
As through the glade, dark in the dim, she flew;
Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings, -
‘What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you?
Here’s orange ribands, here’s a string of pearls,
Here’s silk of buttercup and pansy glove,
A pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls,
A box of silver, scented sweet with clove:
Come now,’ he says, with dim and lifted face,
‘I pass not often such a lonely place.’

‘Pluck not a hair!’ a hidden rabbit cried,
‘With but one hair he’ll steal thy heart away,
Then only sorrow shall your lattice hide:
Go in! all honest pedlars come by day.’
There was dead silence in the drowsy wood;
‘Here’s syrup for to lull sweet maids to sleep;
And bells for dreams, and fairy wine and food
All day your heart in happiness to keep’; -
And now she takes the scissors on her thumb, -
‘O, then, no more unto my lattice come!’

Oh, sad the sound of weeping in the wood!
Now only night is where the Pedlar was;
And bleak as frost upon a quickling bud
His magic steals in darkness, O alas!
Why all the summer doth sweet Lettice pine?
And ere the wheat is ripe, why lies her gold
Hid ‘neath fresh new-pluckt sprigs of eglantine?
Why all the morning hath the cuckoo tolled,
Sad to and fro in green and secret ways,
With solemn bells the burden of her days?

And, in the market-place, what man is this
Who wears a loop of gold upon his breast,
Stuck heartwise; and whose glassy flatteries
Take all the townsfolk ere they go to rest
Who comes to buy and gossip? Doth his eye
Remember a face lovely in a wood?
O people! hasten, hasten, do not buy
His woeful wares; the bird of grief doth brood
There where his heart should be; and far away
Dew lies on grave-flowers this selfsame day.

For more information on Walter de la Mare and his works, please visit the Walter de la Mare Society.