Those fairy folk of old
Come rain, come sun, come cold.
Those guardians of the garden gate,
The keepers of flora-fauna fate.
Whisking waters from ponds to lakes,
Dew drops dancing in their wake.
Garlands of snowdrops and tulip years,
Watered by butterfly tears.
Cherub cheeks, bejewelled eyes
Burning brightly amid sunlit skies.
Their warming touch a golden glow,
Buds unfurling to strengthen and grow.
Their earthen emerald hair
And healing fingertips, so rare.
Petals shaping fascinators of thorny vines,
Sharper than spiced molten wine.
Enchantment threading velvet leaves
From earth to ruined ancient eaves.
Those fairy wings quivering in northern winds,
Blown by mortals colourful sins.
A fierce heart of carmine fire,
For all who rouse their shimmering ire.
Fairy vanguards watching their foe,
Astride rustling feathers of cinnamon crow.
Standing sentry for a kingdom of their own,
Lacing weaving ivy of wicker throne.
From dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn,
In wind, rain and thunderstorm of morn.