deepundergroundpoetry.com

Magic

 I indulge  my delight in the woodland ferns.
Who had cut their lacey fronds in the night?
It could only be the elves I do not see,
none more nimble with the scissor.
I know they watch me and the dog,
feel them hold their breath,
as they aim their bows, lest we trespass
on the sacred mould, theirs by right.
We stay on the path, stumble on the roots.
Jack at times strays, but soon returns
hackles at his neck, spiked with fear.
The magic of the wood, illusions I believe,
more than of gods, are real. Come by night,
sense the black of pines and
silver of  birches in the moonlight.
Natures long kept secret, that
magic makes the world go round
Written by Kexby (john rickell)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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