To the Fairies

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Chestnut brown ale bubbles in the hummus,

A fitting libation for the lilting oaks,

As the stone wall, worked in place by precision,

Waits to gather moss.

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Whether recalling or recognizing, 

Or both, the words and made up words wind around 

My roots and their roots, tangling slowly, tearing

Into the clay pan. 

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I have heard it said by Heaney and Healy

That the thorny throes of wading in the bramble

Serve to stop the seeker in their tracks, and avert

Our prying eyes

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Away from forest alcoves, where ancient

Rites are performed by pixies and sprites. And yet

I hope, haughtily maybe in my headstrong way,

That my blood

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Will show the hiding fairies my strong-willed work,

In songs and stories told to shrubs and sparrows,

That the libation and the lithic wall, here,

Are really for them.

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