Rebel Voice is delighted to bring you this new piece of verse from our resident poet, A.D. It tells the tale of a man who has a vivid dream of an encounter with the Faery Folk of Ireland. However, he is left wondering if indeed it was a dream or did it really happen. With the Little People, you never can tell.
He rushed out that moonlight night
as ragged clouds rolled smoothly
across heavens of ephemeral hue.
He needed air, freedom, space.
Existence was on his mind.
A summer’s night where little moved
after a baking hot day, not even the wind.
He had a lifetime of it still to fill,
to be part of. What else but time?
Moving across meadows
embraced by comforting silence,
he chanced to hear faint murmurs
escape from a copse nearby.
Curiously he watched
as light accompanied the voices,
flickering off dancing trees and hedgerows.
He moved quietly towards a thick ivy bush
from which he could pry.
The man was sat silent, gazing in wonder at a small fire,
when into the clearing beside it stepped people of no great size.
He watched as they laughed, they jumped, they played.
Slowly the intruder rubbed his disbelieving eyes.
The wee folk started to dance, lively,
in jagged circles around the fire.
They sang and they lilted,
they hummed the sweetest Faery songs.
Their voices ebbed up, then down
with the shortened breaths they each took.
A picture of surreality for the man sat bewildered,
yet enthralled by the merry throng.
Round and around they spun,
they swayed, they swirled and sang.
The light of the fire dancing in rhythm
with manic shadows all around.
Wildly they leapt, up and down,
in and out, wildly they laughed.
He found his foot moving
of its own accord upon the ground.
Their cries were almost hysterical now,
their faces expressing their joy.
His face was beginning to move,
twisting into something it had never known.
His heart was racing wildly, jumping,
diving, pumping excitement and life
throughout his frame.
He sensed he was losing control.
The raging conflict inside him was growing.
Tiny voices shrieking in pleasure
as if insanity was their dream.
With fervour unknown to man
they bounded and shook,
they whirled without control.
Around they raced,
their small coats flagging behind
as the man tumbled, to lose possession
of his self, of his soul.
Creatures watched from the hedges around.
Badgers, bats and foxes in audience
oblivious to each other.
They warily observed the ceremony of chaos,
the small folk having fun.
They also saw the human, twitching,
jerking and swaying by the ivy bush
His head now full of music, of words,
of notes, of bars, his thoughts raced
around the fire where he felt he now belonged.
His grasp now slipped from the human world
of reason and interminable duty,
he wished to dance with ancient ones.
He sought refuge in their song.
Suddenly up he sprang from the bush by which he sheltered.
The animals of the land fled hurriedly into a soft night.
He danced and leapt so wildly as he had never done before
but soon regained his senses as he saw in the bouncing firelight,
the wise ones had ceased to dance now.
No longer did they laugh or sing.
His heart was still racing as his sight was growing dim.
They had frozen as one people, their pained faces showing disapproval
as they now gathered round to hauntingly stare at him.
It was all he could remember when he awoke in his home.
His head was pounding, his mouth was dry,
his thoughts were still a mess.
However, he heard strange music
still leaping in the back of his mind,
and ivy leaves fell onto the floor
as he lifted his clothes to dress.
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