Talking to the fairies

If mad you are said to “talk to the fairies”!
They could be better company than some people. So, I regularly talk to the fairies.
Just why is it the very old and the very young have no problem talking to the fairies.
I’m off to a Dryad’s party now…


Nan’s “talking to the fairies” tale

I talk to the fairies these days
I talk both by day and by night
My eyes have a strange misty haze
Some say there is something “not right”

But fairies are real as can be
There everywhere in every place
Not there for the callous to see
Sad souls may be touched by their grace

The fairies are here after rain
There here in the morning time dew
Tomorrow they’ll be here again
They’re dancing about me and you

They’re in the woods and the grasslands
They’re on the high hill and the plain
They dance on the palms of my hands
They’re taking away all the pain

They have sought to lead me away
Down into their hall in the hill
Where though I may dine for one day
A century of time this would kill

I don’t want to lose all that time
I know I would miss all my folk
So, I write all about them in rhyme
Down here in the glade ‘neath the oak

In woods I see the three Dryads
They seem to have taken to me
All of their tales come in triads
With stories as strange as can be

They tell of the three-times-three men
The nine who got lost for a time
They wandered into a fey den
One way to escape was in rhyme

Rhyme has control of the fey folk
They must obey all its power
For rhyming words once they’ve been spoke
May stop their mischief – one hour

But those men stuck in that fey den
None of them had this way with words
They only had got away when
Some of them whistled some chords

For music can enchant the fairies
Enchant their enchanting old tricks
So, whistling just like canaries
Nine men had escaped in three ticks

The dryads told this tale three times
For all things they say are in threes
I tell about them in these rhymes
As they hum about me like bees

Relaxing in the wet lowlands
And enchanted by the landscape
More fairies now dance on my hands
All sadness has gone – I escape

The fairies are here all about me
And my soul now cannot be sad
And now that I’m happy and free
I hear it’s been said – “Oh, she’s mad!”

But madness as an illusion
Relates to the state of the mind
If what I see is delusion
It’s better then being quite blind

Blind to the world of wee people
Deafened by the ring of the bell
That sounds out of a church steeple
It’s quiet where fairy folk dwell

In glades neath the shade of a tree
In fields in the heat of the day
For they are forever with me
I pray that they’ll not go away

And sanity’s another illusion
What it shows I’d rather not find
And so, it is my conclusion
It’s better by far to be blind

Blind to the bad ways of bad men
Avoiding the broad path to hell
In woodland I sit and you pen
Each story the wee folk might tell

An elf by itself in the meadow
Told me of a people now gone
His voice is so mellow and low
His eyes are so blight and they shone

The people who lived long ago
Had kings like our famous Alfred
They were so fractious and fought so
The fairy folk held them in dread

He told me of killings with spears
He told me of killings with swords
I told him of sneaks and of sneers
How we scared each other with words

For if one thing is strange to an elf
And scares little people away
It’s human obsession with self
They live in a quite different way

They live to help one another
They live for much pleasure and joy
Each one’s like a sister or brother
Or happy young girl or young boy

They play their tricks upon mortals
They do it to oafish great men
Yet deep neath the Fairy King’s portals
Is no place for you and your pen

Down there they set out a table
A dinner made of their fey fare
It has been said in a fable
A hundred years flashes by there

And men have returned from that place
And gone to their homes once again
Where they are seen as a strange face
Going mad they drown in the fen

Now fairy and human can’t mix
Each dwell in this beautiful land
But children may see three or six
As they’re dancing a gig on my hand

The souls of the victims of wrath
The hearts of the victims of hate
Whose sadness is worn like sackcloth
With fairy folk should make a date

The fairies will not harm the weak
They’ll never beat down broken hearts
And neither will they act the sneak
Nor poison with rumour’s sharp darts

There’s pixies dance down by the stream
They romp all around and they play
When big oafs stomp down there with dogs
The pixies will all hide away

Oafs have no sight for a pixie
For they have no feel for the fey
They are neither happy nor tricksy
As they’re stomping right through on their way

With power big folk lash about
With muscle and strength get their way
The boorish will thump and will clout
But like dogs each will have their day

But the pixies they are immortal
The pixies are here throughout time
You may look in at their portal
But only talk to them in rhyme

I talk every day to the pixies
They’re everywhere that I now go
I call them “My little tricksies”
As they dance about me for show

The stream flows over the wet sand
It winds its way past my home
Just like everywhere in this land
There’s wee folk wherever I roam

Up on the crags of the mountains
Or on every rolling chalk down
By streams by falls and by fountains
Little folk will play and will clown

They’re everywhere here in our island
They’ve been here throughout all of time
They’re happy and merry and jocund
But you must talk to them in rhyme.”

From: “The Tale of Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians”

The lands about Athelney are full of Fairy Rings.


Fate and a stone bridge

A man had a weakened body so his mind did the wandering.

Stephen Hawking was that man.

His mind could wander across time and space.
It is in time and not space that my mind seeks to wander.
I do not take easily to things theological but two works have seemed to light a spark in me. These are works by Gildas and by Boethius.
I add a book by Hawking to this now.

“For whatever lives in time
that present proceeds from past into the future
and nothing is established in time
which could embrace the entire space of its life
but in fact it does not yet apprehend tomorrow
while it has already lost yesterday;
in life today you do not live more fully
than in that passing and transitory moment…

Severus Boethius; “The Consolation of Philosophy”

I have seen the remains of an ancient bridge that had stood for centuries. The softness of water brought it down.
However, ideas, ideas from a creative mind, can endure longer than that old bridge. They do not remain unaltered but in their turn sew the seeds of more ideas in time to come. They grow and populate thoughts in folk in those future times.

Fate and a stone bridge

The rain it rained for many a day,
The stream seemed filled with ire
As many a thing got swept away;
The road became a mire.

The ancient bridge it juddered then
For waters tear at stone.
Brute hardness is of no use when
Sweet Life is gone, has flown.

A bridge may stand for many a year
So rigid and secure.
It knows not when its end is near,
For nought but Fate is sure.

But go all must when it’s their time
And none may gain delay,
For whether old or in your prime,
Fate always has its way.

Yet when the raging torrent’s gone
The bridge will be no more.
The tiny weeds need not be wan
Their future is secure.

The lesser things may long endure,
Great structure’s all must fall.
Through might none may here be secure
Time sees an end to all.

A wounded man may wander home
And live to be so old.
His life might fill a weighty tome
Where his long tale is told.

Ah, “For whatever lives in Time…”
Proceeds on at its pace.
They may be mired in sin and slime
Or be touched by pure Grace.

Dedicated to the Memory of Stephen Hawking

Feathers Ruffled

Some verses come to me out of the blue.
On 21 September 2001 is was sat in a falconry display on the beautiful island of Mull. I was relaxed and content. The Falconer showed us an American Bald Eagle and said: “She cannot fly as she has a damaged wing”.
This was 10 days after the attack on New York.
These verses came to me in an instant.

Feathers Ruffled

Bald eagle with a damaged wing,
Hawks guided in as planned.
We hear a carrion vulture sing
Where dead flesh is at hand.

Bald eagle has small feathers harmed,
Hawks dead upon the ground.
The vulture’s kind now cower alarmed:
The eagle makes no sound.

The vulture hides deep in a hole
From justice that is planned.
Yet, in his dark deceitful soul
He thinks he is God’s hand.

Sometime from out the sun’s stark rays
We’ll hear the vulture’s dead
And where the well-fed eaglet plays,
The ground is coloured red.

© Trevor Morgan 21 September 2001

Sonnet – The good man’s prolonged death

Life can be unkind, even as it ends.
This sonnet is from a narrative work about the early wars of Wessex.
I wrote it not long before spinal surgery. I was screaming inside my head with pain at the time.


The good man’s prolonged death

The pain brought clouds of darkness to his mind.
His soul screamed for relief but there was none,
None for the pain continued on with its pure grind
And nothing, nothing now could here be done.
He’d screamed and screamed but screams brought no relief
And when he stopped he panted to take breath.
When sleeping drafts brought sleep the sleep was brief,
Then when awake he’d pray for some swift death,
But Death held back refusing to relent.
For some the end is swift, ah, oh, so quick.
Although he screamed aloud that he’d repent
The Fates they seemed now up to some old trick,
The suffering of the cruel may well seem right;
This good man’s end seemed cruel, an act of spite.

© Trevor Morgan 2010

From: “Tales of the Gewissae”

Sonnet – Winds of Change

It is strange how some resist change.
Surely change is a constant and little stays the same.
Even mighty mountains are worn away in time.


Sonnet – Winds of Change

“Whirling and swirling in patterns so strange,
The dust out of doors is dancing about.
This is not the same as strange winds of change
That make things once certain now feel full of doubt.
The future’s scarce like such swirling’s of dust,
For it’s in no way as easy to see.
Yet each in their time must do as they must.
This now it seems is the way things ought be;
Who is secure then when old realms decline?
When problems abound and times become hard
Beneath the dark cloud who sees the sun shine?
Like dust and like dirt outside in the yard,
Now, oft times we see such swirling’s of hate
When fleet winds of change are beckoned by Fate.”

From: “The Children of Gewis”

Sonnet – The Lioness

I like Kipling’s words:
“For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”
He must have known a lot of women like the women I know!

The Lioness

The lioness she licked her paw that night.
The blood between her claws it tastes so sweet.
Her murderous teeth they seemed the purest white,
Those teeth that tore through warm and living meat.
Those teeth that squoze¹ a throat, oh, how it bled!
Her prey through spasms soon hung limp and still,
She softly purred through lips so moist and red.
The taste of blood to her gave such a thrill,
Male lions in her pride might well now eat.
Her young they too would drink her copious milk
As laying belly bloated full of meat.
All ought fear her and all her ilk;
The female is most deadly when at bay.
Her kith and kin ought thank her every day!

Trevor Morgan 2010

From: “Queen Aethelburg of the Gewissae”


  1. “Squoze”:  Past tense of squeeze but only in some local dialects.
    I could write squeezed but “squoze a throat” is how my muse gave the line to me. the repeat of the “o” sound works for me.
    It also gives grammar purists something get mardy about.

The dead thrush

Silence where once there was song is emptiness indeed.
Elegies are necessary for the loss of one you love.

The dead thrush

“There will be silence on the morrow
For the old songbird had died.
Yet, she’ll be free of her pure sorrow,
Free from the years she’d sighed.

Each song had been a sad lament
A dirge, an elegy
And though this may be conscience sent,
Pathos has melody.

For many years her songs were sweet
Until her mate had died,
When she lay dead here at my feet
Then, oh, my dear I sighed!

Her sad songs had a luscious lilt,
Beauty had sprung from grief.
But now it seems my soul must wilt;
Why was her life so brief?

The garden plot is quieter now
Save for a passing bee.
I worked with sweat upon my brow,
But now I don’t feel free.

I’m burdened by a heavy heart,
I’m dulled and not alert.
My soul seemed like it’s torn apart
Torn by some hollow hurt.

And all because a bird was dead.
Oh, things may die each day.
Yet, her songs are still in my head
And they’ll not pass away.

I listen to them in my mind
To every chirp and twill.
This legacy she’s left behind
And it is with me still.

They echo on beyond her life,
A life that knew such woe.
She’s passed beyond all hurt and strife,
The way all life must go.”

From: “The Children of Gewis”

Sonnet- Sunset at the summer solstice

I like to watch the turning of the year.
Here in winter in the midst of a snow storm my mind can go the Glastonbury Tor and watch the sunset at the Summer Solstice

Sunset at the summer solstice

The sun set on the solstice clear and fine,
Now at this peak its rule must slowly fade.
Though some may rise all in the end decline
From zenith to the nadir all’s decayed.
Decline and drift precede the dwindling strength
And sight that once was keen fades and is now dim
And hearing too it fails ‘til deaf at length.
As all about friends die and all is grim;
The autumn equinox is past then gone
As onward down the darkening days things go.
New things arise then they too are outshone
As time speeds past that once had flowed so slow.
Midwinter nears with long nights as its sign
And this then brings an end – no more decline.

Trevor Morgan

From: Saga of the Spiteful (Part 1)

The sea breeze

There’s something calming about a gentle sea breeze.

The Sea Breeze

I listen to the waves that lap
Along the Sussex coast.
They healed me after that mishap
That made those braggarts boast.

The calming breezes of the sea
So gentle on the soul,
It’s here my spirit is set free,
My broken heart made whole.

I listen to a sea bird’s cry
Such plaintive lonesome sounds,
Yet I no longer need to sigh;
The hare’s escaped those hounds.

© Trevor Morgan October 2003

Sonnet – Mutability


I like Shelley for his spirit of rebellion.
Our present generation of young snowflakes could learn a lot by visiting his anger and his passion.
Sadly this is not happening. When I visit book shops I see none of his work on the book shelves. I loath soft simpering slop all about hurt feelings that does not have rhythm or rhyme and is so falsely claimed to be poetry!

Mutability was a subject that Shelley visited.  This I honour here.



Men are as shadows cast by faint moonbeams,
A hint of some existence that’s soon gone.
All seems illusion like some waking dreams
Then shades return to where the moonbeams shone.
Like faint discerned reflections in the night
They seem as if alive as moments fly.
Yet, soon they die and are quite gone from sight
Existing only in the tears some cry.
The weepers in a trice themselves soon go;
Faint moonlight passes on and is beyond
The reach of what men seek or ever know.
Illusion and delusion cause despond.
Faint glimmerings in a place where moonbeams shine
Cause egos to scream out “…all this is MINE…”

© Trevor Morgan 8 February 2018


Like Li Bai I am most moved to verse by the Moon on a still night with beer in my belly. (Li Bai had rice wine in his.)