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The P O E M I S T

A farmhand went a dancing

Went a farmhand from his labour
A walking homeward through a wood.
Just through the trees, upon the moor,
Not very far from where he stood
He saw some faeries prancing.
For a time he watched the dancing
Whilst moving closer all the while.
Slow, and using all his guile,
He spied another on a leaf
Playing a flute faerie-style,
Their magic music mortal's thief.

Close, of his presence undemure,
His being seen all likelihood,
Their note-song now his artful lure,
He would not stop now if he could.
One tiny dancer a whirling
Near, stroked him upon his bended
Knee. He starts-in lips fixed in a smile,
His spirits now set free. For mile
On mile he jigs, not pausing brief,
Influenced by their faerie wile,
Their magic music mortal's thief.

All of a sudden and premature
The music stopped, and there him left stood
All alone. Collapsing, unsure,
To his knees, cast-off like driftwood
By sea. Never so exhausting
Found he a task so short-living.
Not sure if his senses beguile
Him, his search for faeries futile.
He, feeling happiness bequeathed,
Went his way, a faerie exile,
Their magic music mortal's thief.

Slow, aching, now without rapture,
Vulnerable as in childhood,
He turns to make his departure.
Pushing on, walk barely withstood,
He reaches his heart's belonging.
Except of that left this morning
So little remains of his domicile
Save, here and there, stones in a pile.
Looking about him in disbelief,
His thoughts could find no reconcile,
Their magic music mortal's thief.

Through broken villages, no detour,
He finds that holy place which should
Grant solace. He finds no succour
Here, alas, since no sight of good
Greets his sad eyes. Without warning,
An unkempt, marked grave, him scorning
With his wife's name. He, immobile,
Standing there suddenly docile,
Jolted, stunned, stares in abject grief
At that fay-gift, now to revile,
Their magic music mortal's thief.


First, to the faeries he felt hostile,
Then to self he did most defile,
Feeling his own response as chief
Blame, him now choked upon his bile,
Their magic music mortal's thief.

Poem © The Postcardist: 2017

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Last updated: 22nd, Feb, 2017