A Tale Told by the Meadow Wanderer

The meadows rise 

wrapped in white,
a tender mist that softens sight.

The footprints of fairies
who danced through the night
still rest on the flowers
hidden in dew,
gleaming bright.

As sunlight grows
and slowly flows
across the waking land,
the secrets, the stories,
the drifting dreams
slip from the morning’s hand.

The mist withdraws in hushed release,
and day begins its quiet peace,
a gentle pulse, a golden rhyme,
that steadies space and summons time.

While the sun idles slowly through the sky,
its rays fall softly where the leaves lie.

Shadows dance,
and breezes play,
on the forest floor they sway.

To those who listen,
they tell their tales,
in whispers woven through the trails.

And I,

I wait for the golden hours to gleam,
following glimmers in their stream;
sometimes in a wildflower’s crown,
sometimes on a leaf where a dragonfly
settles down,
its golden wing
shining with a quiet sound.

I try to still the flow of time,
through my lens, in silent rhyme.

Holding breath, I do not move,
as twilight hums its tender tune.

At night, the meadows wear a different face.

A distant growl drifts through the hush.

And know, my friend,
the sounds I hear at night
are no dream,
nor fairy tale.

They are real, as real can be,
never erased,
never fading away with time. 😅

Sometimes a fox
glides through the meadow’s dark,
its tail flickers briefly,
then vanishes, swift and stark.

Try to catch it,
quick as flame,
it always hurries,
never the same.

Sometimes a thirsty hedgehog
stirs from sleep,

softly through the shade.

Then too it vanishes
into the velvet night,
its traces lost
to fading light.

If the moon is shy,
I do not step
into the valley.

I walk along its edge,
preserving knowingly
the harmony of dark.

For the night belongs to them,
and I am but a shadow,
a traveler gliding
beneath the silver light.

Sometimes I sit
upon a roadside stone,
photograph the stars,
and drift into dreams alone.

Call it idling if you will!

That is when I ask myself,
Who are we?
Why are we here?
What lies beyond
the Milky Way’s frontier?

I do not fear to ask,
nor tire of seeking,
for it is not the answer
but courage itself
that keeps the inner flame alive.

Inside this secret hollow
sleep small, forgotten things;
soft little miracles,
hushed and hidden dreams.

Magic made anew
in silver silence dwells,
each one a quiet relic
of ancient, echoing spells.

A Small Herb Charm

A sprig of rosemary,
a leaf or two of bay,
thyme and lavender at play.

They turn, in patient olive oil,
to bars of balm from herb and soil,
a witching blend by close of day. 🌙🪄

The Butterfly in the Bottle

A butterfly wing in a glass so small,
perhaps a half-remembered fairy song.

If ever it stirs,
a waiting tale may find its end,
and maybe, softly,
a dream will wake.

Ink and Feather

Ink long steeped in oak-tree memory
waits dark and still
at the tip of my jay-feather quill,
ready to curl,
to lean into a riddle,
to become a half-told tale.

My bag is wide,

 but when the things I find will not fit, 

I tuck them gently, 

one by one, 

into my pockets, bit by bit.

An Acorn

A few small branches,
a leaf or two,
a tiny flower,
and a little acorn.
As I carry it close,
I hear tomorrow’s song,
bright with hope.

Earth and Stone

A handful of clay, stone, soil…

I use them in my natural dyes.
With patient, quiet craft
they turn to gentle tones and subtle shades,
waiting for a painter,
resting softly in an old seashell.

An Olive Leaf

And sometimes, from my pockets,
slips a faded olive leaf,
kept from harvest days,
still holding gentle memories.

In the pages of my notebook
dried daisies and faded leaves lie waiting;
recipes half remembered, half forgotten,
and riddles waiting to be solved.

Between them, little maps,
hasty notes written under starry nights,
and a poem or two left unfinished.

Beside the pressed flowers
ink stains remain,
small birds sketched in the margins,
marks that show the turning of the wind,
and between the pages
one or two meadow seeds.

In a corner, the trace of an old tale.

All of it will awaken when the time comes.

Like a quiet grimoire.

Like a story not yet closed.

Sometimes, quietly, it appears
a young oak sprouting
at the foot of a tree.

And why, you ask?
I ask as well, as I always do.

Come closer then,
and let me tell the tale anew.

Playful squirrels and clever jays
hide their seeds in secret ways,
beneath the stones, in hollows deep,
where roots and whispers softly sleep.

Preparing for winter, careful and wise,
each tiny treasure hidden from eyes.

Yet some are forgotten, left behind.
Ah well, that is nature’s way, so fair.

And those forgotten slip away,
down to the patient earth they stray.

Not meant for winter’s hush to stay,
but for the song of spring’s bright day.

Days grow short, the seasons turn.
Rains descend
and gently whisper to the earth:

“The time has come.”

And there, just there,
a little oak quietly appears. 🌱

And so a new forest begins.

Sometimes I find a stone, cold blue.

They say, long ago, on Black Mountain’s view, a lone dragon flew.

Its fire sank through the earth’s deep hue; its ashes grew into stones we knew.

Now it lies quiet. Forgotten, perhaps?

No. Not truly. Only waiting.

As for the rest, that is for another story.

Sometimes I find
a hollow nest tucked in olive boughs,
or lying low on storm-wet earth
after the night has howled.

Woven of twigs,

wind, and patience.

A small shelter.

Some I keep for a while.
And some, when the time is right,
I return
to the quiet of the trees,
where they belong.

Sometimes a feather drifts from the sky,
black and white, speckled, drifting awry.

Through the quiet woods an echoing rhythm rings:
tap, tap, tap, 

clear and steady;

a woodpecker, surely.

Like a little hammer
of feather and wing.

High on an old oak,
or along a eucalyptus trunk,
it works with quiet care,
shaping its hidden home there.

Never hurried, never weary,
working in nature’s way,
careful and  cheery.

And the ancient trees all seem to know
this rhythm they have heard long ago.

Tap, tap, tap…

Sometimes I set my sails for new tales.

The south wind brings to shore
planks shaped in countless ways,
shells and seaweed,
and slender forms the tides adore.

Time, salt, and waves,
old craftsmen of the sea,
have carved each stone
with quiet artistry.

And sometimes, in drifting sand,
I find a hag-stone, hollow and thin,
its circle worn by years and tide,
a weathered gate to what lies within.

And when I gaze through 

its weathered ring, old whispers rise, soft as light.

Perhaps a fairy stirs, perhaps a silver-haired maid singing her shimmering song where tides grow bright.

For a moment, in that fragile sight, there gleams a lost king deep in the keep, where secrets rest, where ancient waters sleep.

I gather them all. 

I listen to their lore.

With the ocean’s lullaby they pour onto the page in a gentle, glowing roar.