Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Festival

Do you see them peeping?
Do you see them creeping?
They’re beneath the blades of green
where the bluebells will be seen.
They’re making for the coracle,
see it in the distance?
And they’ll take it through the mist
to the river just beyond.
They’ll travel up the river,
mothers will get shivers
and children heebie-jeebies
looking for the fae.
It’s known they’ll be here soon,
for it is the time of year
when the fae enjoy the festival,
the festival of fear.

Polly Stretton © 2016


19 Comments

Dandelion Faeries

Dandelion faeries blow in the breeze
dancing to the tune of Croome,
murmuring mystical movements.

Ripples run
in rivulets and rings
and the dandelion faeries
tiptoe in time in a timeless haven,

swimming in the air,
splashing in sunshine
and shallows:
dainty dandelion fae.
iStock_000013096822_Small

Polly Stretton © 2015


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The Journey

Riding from the far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain.
Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked
red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked.
On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched,
onward, moving South, they went.

Flying ahead of the sunset West:
werewolves; sprites in fiery vests;
pixies pointing ears to learn
where coal black jackdaws crash and burn.
There is no place to hide.

Then from the sunrise in the East
the faerie queen on bounding beast
the size of which sees grown elves weep.
They hear her voice so light (though deep)
control the slavering ride.

Inch by inch from the dry drought South
a dead sheep carried in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering[1] hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers[2].

Polly Stretton © 2015

This poem will mark the start of my ‘World of Fae’ compilation of poetry and prose. One day it will be complete 🙂

My thanks to a friend who helped me to amend one of the lines – appreciated.

[1] Act in a vacillating or indecisive manner – talk foolishly
[2] Something that moves unsteadily or with a weaving or rolling motionStrett


62 Comments

The Journey

Riding from far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain.
Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked
red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked.
On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched,
onward, moving South, they went.

Flying ahead of the sunset West:
werewolves; sprites in fiery vests;
pixies pointing ears to learn
where coal black jackdaws crash and burn.
There is no place to hide.

Then from the sunrise in the East
the faerie queen on bounding beast
the size of which sees grown elves weep.
They hear her voice so light (though deep)
control the slavering ride.

Inch by inch from the dry drought South
a dead sheep carried in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Reposting this especially for Poetics: Snowed Under, Iced In, Cosying Up – not sure about the ‘cosying up’ bit though… 😉


26 Comments

Moonlight In Jars

On the Malverns
under the stars
where faerie folk catch
moonlight in jars
for the jaded witch
along Shire Ditch
and only the brave
pass the giant’s cave
home

Polly Robinson © 2014

Moonlight in a jar - photo by www.etsy.com

Moonlight in a jar – photo by http://www.etsy.com


19 Comments

Night Sulks

In the depths of night the sky is sulky,
walkers set out for the brow of the hill.
Around British Camp and down, down Shire Ditch,
ill-willed faeries live, love, fly and thrill.
They avoid Waum’s Cave for fear of the witch
who lives alone, low, deep in the dell.

A crossroads appears, with pointing way stones,
to north, to south, direct the unwary.
No-one can vouchsafe their accuracy,
they seem not to know it pays to be chary.
The ill-willed fae move the markers so the
wenders and walkers strong boots go astray.

The witch steps on twigs and rattles old leaves
and the sky darkens more, charcoals to grey,
turns to pitch black and torch batteries grieve,
the walkers now feeling, stealing their way
over hillocks and humps, bracken and hay
in the depth of the night, at the end of the day.

A night to walk but not to talk if
you know what’s good for you.
Believe what happens to those who imagine
and believe that it can be true.

Polly Robinson © 2013

Along the Shire Ditch to Broad Down - geograph...

Along the Shire Ditch to Broad Down – geograph.org.uk – 1417378 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


10 Comments

Blood-tithe

The time is upon us.
Seven years is up,
the blood-tithe is due.
The carmine blood-tithe, darkly red;
mortal infants, nearly dead.

All too human
donations are
siphoned.
Bones and flesh
abandoned to rot and
rattle in the cave.
What’s left of breath
is but vapour;
traces of life
exhausted.

One day
they’ll be
exhumed.

He’ll be here soon
to collect the cup;
the chalice of
the faerie queen.
The malice of
the faerie queen.
Rich and coppery,
fresh,
carmine dark.

It will rest in the stiff
black
sack
upon
his back.
And he’ll cast
a glance
over
his shoulder
as he rides
away.

Polly Stretton © 2013

Grain Sacks