Faeries in the Garden
|image by my son|
Just the tips of their red slippers were
peeping out under the turnips.
Mum says I probably saw raspberries
knocked off the bushes by the
But, no, these were faeries.
Smaller than gnomes by far,
and with wings.
I could hear them giggling
when I pricked my thumb on a bramble.
Only faeries would be so heartless.
Mum said that was bees droning in the meadow.
I stomped my foot and shouted, “FAERIES!”
She was not pleased at that; I am “Not. To. Shout.”
I had to skip my tea.
Which is what the faeries wanted of course.
Storybook faeries are made of moonlight
and angels’ feathers.
These are lies perpetuated by the real ones
to fool human mortals.
They are excellent at self-promotion.
Actual garden faeries bite.
I was bitten once.
Mum said it was the biggest mosquito bite she’d ever seen.
It was a faery bite.
Look closely and you can still see the mark.
Faery bites leave a pock.
Mum says stop picking at it and let it heal.
But, faery marks don’t heal.
I think they’re permanent.
An indelible reminder not to underestimate them.
Mum asked me to pick some broad beans on Thursday.
I refused. Those vines are just teeming with faeries.
Mum said faeries were no excuse to disobey.
She huffed out and picked them herself.
I had no dinner.
I think the faeries are trying to starve me.
The best I can do is be diligent.
Carry a fly swatter.
Don’t stick my hands where I can’t see.
Stay on the paths.
Stay off the wall.
And never, ever look under the shed.
Odds are there’ll be faeries there in the shadows.
Mum says that’s the hedgehog rooting around.
She’s wrong about a lot of things.
Especially about faeries.
©2020 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved
Linking to Writers' Pantry #45