The Fairies Wink
A fleeting flutter, nimble quick.
A fairy flit round new leaf tip.
Gave me a wink; try this one sip.
From acorn cup put to my lip.
Upon my tongue sweet nectar drop.
My world did spin and then did stop.
And blinking much I realised.
I now had wings and was her size.
Surprised, I found another change.
My manly body rearranged.
A female form did now have I.
She winked again that naughty eye.
Then flew me gently hand in hand.
And lay me down on velvet land.
Embraced and kissed me softly and …
I’ve long forgot I was a man.
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Arrane ny Ferishyn – Song of the Fairies
Cred dy jinnagh yn slouree as y drolloo
Troggal seose ayns caggey cheoie;
Maidjey’n phot, as ny jystyn ooilley,
Ooilley felyral nol-ry-hoi ?
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:)
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Tree Story by Simon Lidwell
Drip, Drip, Drip …
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!
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)The Pedlar by Walter de la Mare
There came a Pedlar to an evening house;
Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down,
Wondered what man he was, so curious
His black hair dangled on his tattered gown:
Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes, -
‘What will you buy, sweetheart? – Here’s honeycomb,
And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies,
Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom,
To keep in water for to make night sweet:
All that you want, sweetheart, – come, taste and eat!’
Tangle
Tangle skips to spring bare feet,
neath blossom blooms to dance and leap,
to Bluebell tunes within her dreams,
midst Cherry petals on the breeze.
Tangle’s ridden mad March Hares,
to Elfin kingdoms Faery fairs,
A Hawk whose feathers in her hair,
guides her home so she may share.
If you’ve respect then she may tell,
of folklore lost and Faery spells,
so listen gently, listen well,
and you may hear her Bluebell bells.
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (1)by Fleas
