The Fairy Den
Our fairy den was at
the bottom of a pasture
that sloped to a stream
in a forest enclosure.
Where field and trees met
was dappled with shade
and lime-green light,
which shone through the glade.
Moss, gold and emerald,
carpeted the tree roots.
The wet bark was jet-black
like our wellington boots.
The smell was of damp earth,
rotting wood and moist moss;
decaying old leaves
and general mustiness.
The sound was of water
talking to itself,
and of leaves in the breeze
or disturbed by an elf...
The walls of the den
were tree roots and trunks,
bracken the roof
and moss the bunks.
Leaves were mats;
stones the tables;
and acorns the cups
as in all the fables.
When all was complete
it was such a thrill
to pledge secrecy
and escape the chill.
We’d emerge from hiding
to clear blue skies,
warm sun on bare skin
and dazzled eyes.
To wafts of leaves
limp with heat,
hot meadow grass
crushed and sweet.
To chirping crickets
and lazy flies,
distant bleating
and buzzards’ cries.
A magical place,
fairies or no,
for childhood dreams
to develop and grow.
