The night-time is not really night,
As within, bright wonders are found,
If your eyes catch a fleeting glimpse,
Rejoice! For the small folk abound.
Tiny Fae, Wisps, Faeries or sprites,
All who see them are in for a thrill,
Night-time cavorting, wonders weaving,
Then return to homes under the hill.
Amongst flowers, they dance brightly alive
They bring love to each tender petal,
Leaves strengthen; colour fills with light —
A pure test of their lives magic mettle,
Their dancing is not just at random,
Quietly prancing, each holds a sleeve,
Fae’s magic resides in their bodies,
And through motion, magic they weave.
As they strengthen each stem with care
Lovingly bring light to the flowers,
Small voices chant with bright hope,
They sing on and on through the hours.
Once dawn spreads her rosy soft glow,
Folding small, her gossamer wings,
Wearily retire; briefly slumber in rest,
As each one flies; she sings, she sings.
Their respite is not under the hill,
Those stories suffice for mankind,
Reality dwells through times unfound;
Far beyond the ken of our kind.
The pillowed, siren-like call of day’s rest —
Magical chimes to which they’re beckoned —
Through the secret ways of the Fae,
Lie ’tween two broken halves of a second.
Their refuge exists outside of time,
A realm where no Fae grows old,
They rest in silently glittering dreams,
In slumber, wings relax and unfold.
Each faery infused with magical life,
A bounty they’re generous to share,
Magical rivers run teeming in light,
Even the Fae’s chalice drains bare.
Preparing for eternal slumber,
Weeping sisters gather around,
Silent shimmering light of the Fae
Carries her off without a sound.
The sisters prepare and gather wills,
Each a fond memory in hand,
Arm in small arm, a circle around—
Behold! Magic flows forth from the land.
Enchanted soil brings forth a flower,
Burning with life’s strongest flame,
Soft petals reveal a sister reborn—
Rejoicing; she rejoins their game.
Their labours are not given in service,
Through taxing long efforts at night;
It is merely the magical art of the Fae—
A labour of love that seems right.
