She was beautiful, they say.

She was enchanted, they say.

- - -

Her raiment rippled about her shoulders,

a mantle of cloud, misty and grey,

cloud that comes early down on the lowlands.

She hung in her ears

droplets of glistening rain

and, clasped about slender hands and delicate feet

her anklets and wristlets were made of

rose-and-lavender violets

like pieces of the sunset sky cut out to make room

for the stars.

- - -

Some claimed they have seen her, have escaped,

have not been called.

They said she was just another little old woman

like many little old women

but at night they say she transformed, grew younger,

morphed into something strange and savage,

something not quite human.

Of course, no one knew for sure.

They were just children’s fairy-tales, made up to keep them in bed,

about the creature whose call no mortal can resist.

- - -

In her shadowy hair she wore

white stars like living gems,

tips of tapered ears just visible

and for a scarf she wrapped

a rainbow

about her neck, twisting and turning,

dazzling the eye with many colours.

Her wings were soft and glimmering,

translucent, pearly, for they were made of clear water

that flows by the land of dreams,

and in her veins ran not blood but moonlight.

- - -

And under a slim crescent moon in a vaulted sky

she would ride to the hunt for her Queen,

would cry for hot blood,

pointed teeth sharp and glowing like moonstones

dark eyes large, full with expectation

hunting for those who were called by her Queen

to her Land,

and though none ever escaped the sleep she laid on them,

those left behind knew what she looked like in restless dreams,

knew that she was beautiful,

knew that she was enchanted.

- - -

She lived in a giant tiger lily,

fiery orange spattered with richest, darkest purple

deep in the green forest,

opening only when starlight just kissed its silken petals.

One day the lily was shriveled, brown, dry.

She had left, or died.

Perhaps her Queen had work for her elsewhere,

had left the calling of mere mortals to another;

perhaps she, weary of this world, had flown away to other, better dreams;

perhaps— but who knows?

- - -

She was beautiful, they say.

She was enchanted, they say.

She was a Faerie, they say.

-el fin-