This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is search.
They dance around the trees as they look for pretty things.
They have been told to walk on ballerina toes.
Sometimes, the giddy ones, trudge and stomp,
crushing the spines of little ones who live below their feet.
A pursuit which ends, for the brightest of children,
in their share of treasure;
the people of the Otherworld are known to leave lavish gifts.
The cauldron of plenty, the wand of intelligence,
the tree of knowledge.
What child would not
search for truth?
They are said to be of the early tribes,
the ones that were banished and bared,
from the northwestern coast,
a cluster of British Isles that wanted them off.
The ones that make their way from India are intoxicated in dance.
Their rite is fertile, in water and somewhere in sand.
From the caves of Ithaca,
other friends descend.
Where they are given two gates, pleasant and obscure.
Since darkness is by no means delight,
they make their escape through barrows and mounds.
Needless to say, some find us in an angry way.
The children know never to swim on the fifth of March,
for the festival of river nymphs and the winged ones in water
pose a harrowing thrill,
not only after dark.
For the children who believe,
the ones that have rose-colored dreams,
the wee folk in their woody dells are nothing but good.
They are made of silk and snow,
travelling on wrinkled leaves.
Tiny and winged,
flying in Spring.
These immortal lovers,
dressed in gold and green.
On the farthest land westward,
the season is ripe. The playgrounds are empty of dew.
Our children are ready to hunt.
Pixies or pirates.
Fay or Puck.
Fallen angles, suspended in flight.
Condemned to remain just as they were,
hanging in thin air.
Others left under a layer of Earth.
And various ones,
a hallow whisper between sunlight and dust.