Hawkman
11-26-2010, 09:20 AM
On a great estate in Cornwall
I saw the faeries by the lake.
Basking in mid-summer sun,
they played and gathered foliage
and wove it into garlands,
wreathes of green
to wear upon their heads
and wrap their bodies in a leafy shroud.
In timeless youth they played,
carefree in companionship
they laughed and lazed,
their numbers swelling,
as from woodland paths
the foragers emerged,
fern laden,
their smiles, the smiles
of woodland nymphs and dryads.
One of them was drinking from a can,
without the use of hands,
its rim tight clenched between his pearly teeth.
It trickled its refreshing nectar
(probably the best faerie nectar in the world)
down his throat.
He lay upon the bank-side span,
a naked silky thigh
in easy reach of wandering hand.
On a great estate in Cornwall
I saw faeries in the garden,
green men and women all
(though some were over six feet tall)
their tinkling laughter
punctuated by the munching
crunch of nibbles
and the popping corks
of South African Champagne.
They were definitely faeries
for I saw their wings,
held upon their backs with straps,
while golden evening light
shone through the gossamer nets
and verdant crowns upon their heads.
Chasing bubbles, waving wands,
observed by Gandalf’s twin
(excepting youth and missing beard)
whose stout staff propped him
while he grinned,
one or two were seen to dance
amid the revel’s din.
On a great estate in Cornwall
I saw the faeries dining,
serenaded by a bat.
Their banquet
now laid out inside the house
on one great table,
garnished with the silvery leaves of summer trees
and lit by candles’ sparkling light
bouncing off the crystal set at every place,
and glow-worms,
worn as jewellery,
round their waists and in their hair.
Did they spy me standing there,
watching from outside?
With digital cameras
flashing like the stars,
they captured every indiscretion,
for that’s the privilege of youth,
while I,
who had grown old,
remembered silly things I’d done,
pursuing fun when young.
I saw the faeries by the lake.
Basking in mid-summer sun,
they played and gathered foliage
and wove it into garlands,
wreathes of green
to wear upon their heads
and wrap their bodies in a leafy shroud.
In timeless youth they played,
carefree in companionship
they laughed and lazed,
their numbers swelling,
as from woodland paths
the foragers emerged,
fern laden,
their smiles, the smiles
of woodland nymphs and dryads.
One of them was drinking from a can,
without the use of hands,
its rim tight clenched between his pearly teeth.
It trickled its refreshing nectar
(probably the best faerie nectar in the world)
down his throat.
He lay upon the bank-side span,
a naked silky thigh
in easy reach of wandering hand.
On a great estate in Cornwall
I saw faeries in the garden,
green men and women all
(though some were over six feet tall)
their tinkling laughter
punctuated by the munching
crunch of nibbles
and the popping corks
of South African Champagne.
They were definitely faeries
for I saw their wings,
held upon their backs with straps,
while golden evening light
shone through the gossamer nets
and verdant crowns upon their heads.
Chasing bubbles, waving wands,
observed by Gandalf’s twin
(excepting youth and missing beard)
whose stout staff propped him
while he grinned,
one or two were seen to dance
amid the revel’s din.
On a great estate in Cornwall
I saw the faeries dining,
serenaded by a bat.
Their banquet
now laid out inside the house
on one great table,
garnished with the silvery leaves of summer trees
and lit by candles’ sparkling light
bouncing off the crystal set at every place,
and glow-worms,
worn as jewellery,
round their waists and in their hair.
Did they spy me standing there,
watching from outside?
With digital cameras
flashing like the stars,
they captured every indiscretion,
for that’s the privilege of youth,
while I,
who had grown old,
remembered silly things I’d done,
pursuing fun when young.