(for Kyra MacPherson)
Come Stranger, follow close behind me.
I will take you down to a place where the water-lilies grow white as snow,
& I'll show you a fairy sat on each; floating on the ripples, dipping her toe.
Do you believe me, Stranger?
Some are not able to hear thier fairy-song, and most are too blind to see them fly
to and fro, touching a lily-pad & then ascending again- so many it fills the sky.
The path starts here:
Come, this way, through the tall, sweeping grass aglow,
& toward the water. You might already hear their song?- no?
We are here, Stranger:
Where the water-lilies grow, & the fairies sing; a hidden place your senses deny
& your heart already knows. Thier wings are a beautful flutter, their bodies spry;
here, where the white water-lillies grow.
