They are coming, she said,
So put the sugars out.
Get the bread and jam
And a cake – no,
not the one that’s gone hard,
But the good currant bun.
Let them feast, son,
For they will make merry tonight.
Her son walked to the door
But she said
Wait.
Come here, son: let me add
A drop of whisky –
your father won’t mind.
It’s not the whisky he drinks
Only the stout.
And how about
some toffee?
Her son took the plate
Quivering
Tentative steps
Across the washed stone floor
Lifting the latch
And out the door
To the much-loved
Much-feared rings across the field
He fancied he saw hands
Reaching round the trees
Shapes flitting through the bushes
Two sharp eyes
glancing out of the gloom
Was that the whisper
of the wind
Or silver voices in the air?
His heart was in his mouth
Yet it blazed
With this high honour.
Sun set, gifts checked
The boy saw all was in order
And he dared to smile;
Nodded at the job well done.
It was autumn
The sun getting lower in the sky
And so he went back to his mother
The faeries’ good wishes won
And his steps light.
Image source: Adobe
Aisling Maria Cronin 