Fairy Tale

At my garden‘s edge
there grows a hedge
over a heap of old stone
from an ancient house,
now shelter of many a mouse.
 
Nobody ever cared
nor anyone was scared
about a strange tone
that sometimes came with the wind.
One dark day I was pinned
 
down to the spot where I stood:
from out of the wood
a row of tiny footprints leading
to the broken wall I found
when snow covered the ground.
 
They seemed the marks of little shoes
not a trail of duck or goose
or of mice which came feeding.
Through the brambles I plowed
not daring to breathe aloud.
 
The footprints ended at a tile
reaching it straight in a neat file.
And when I touched the stone
it slipped and gave way
to a glittering cave. A ray
 
reflected by the gilded walls
led me through emerald halls
to a high royal throne
where the lightest fairy-queen
leaned that I ever had seen.
 
She smiled a friendly welcome
and ordered to serve me some
of her servants which were mice.
She rose her ruby glass
filled with dew from the grass
 
and drank to me a toast.
Suddenly as by spell of a ghost
all was turned into blue ice.
And blinded I touched without end
the bare stone with my frozen hand.
 
 

© I. Beddies

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