You’ll know when it happens,
you’ll know when they’re here,
at dusk
when the fairies come.
A whisper so quiet
with breath on your cheek,
so soft
when the fairies come.
A tingling spine
and dust in the moonbeams
alive,
when the fairies come.
A howl in the distance
while dew glows on grass blades
they’ll sing
when the fairies come.
But don’t go a-looking
you must keep your distance
don’t seek
when the fairies come.
For they always know -
one fright,
they’ll go
if you make them,
when the fairies come.
It’s a strange thing, as a writer, how an idea can arrive as if from nowhere, as if by magic. And yet, it must come from somewhere. From us.
Perhaps they are shaped by what we read, hear, and see - or perhaps they have always been there, waiting to be noticed. Do we create ideas, or do they already exist - waiting, tucked away in the hidden corners of our minds?
The concept for this poem came first - an image of fairies dancing in my garden. I have no real explanation for it. I hadn’t been reading about folklore or magic, hadn’t encountered anything that might have planted the seed. And still, it appeared.
I’m not sure it’s about anything profound. I don’t think it needs to be. It was an idea, it was within me, and I chose to bring it to life.
I love how your annotation at the end connects with the poem. Just like fairies who don't like to be chased or watched, our inspiration often comes when we least expect it -and it gets frightened when we try to force it. such a beautiful piece!
This is gorgeous. Some ideas really do arrive like visitors ❤️🥹