He’ll come and he’ll say, “Lady?”
And I’ll answer him, “My lord?”
And it will be
Beneath this tree,
Twisted in its wood.
“Why leaves here?” he’ll ask me,
And he’ll touch a strand of hair,
Then he’ll brush
The earth and moss
From the gown I wear.
I’ll play for him some music,
And he’ll choose from flute or harp,
Of stone and ley,
Playing in the dark.
“Why so long here, lady?”
And he’s answered with a breeze,
The moon will rise
Upon the wise
Who dance between the trees.
He’ll come and he’ll say, “Lady,”
And I’ll answer him, “My love,”
With longing need
Burns the faerie blood.
~ J.L. Hilton (c) 1992
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