Three Poems by Ursula O'Reilly

 

TRAPPED

I witnessed a pixie once,

Trapped inside a glass bottle,

On a shelf in a friend’s house.

Watched as the tiny creature

Crept to the back of the vessel.

Eyes gleaming with fear.

 

What is that? I asked my friend.

Her gaze rested on the sprite.

Vivid fragile wings shielded

Most of the tiny being.

Some sort of bug? I enquired.

Or maybe a butterfly?

 

Not a butterfly she said.

Unrelated entirely.

I found it in the garden,

Scooped it up and trapped it

In the bottle.  Look closely.

I have captured a pixie!

 

I looked again at the bottle.

An exquisite imp, with arms,

Legs, feet in tiny shoes.

Silken skin, green as a leaf,

Arrayed in a gown of gold,

Multicoloured wings aglow.

 

What will you do? I asked.

I will sell her, said my friend.

I will become famous, rich.

Woman who captured a fairy.

She clapped her hands gaily.

Suddenly I didn’t like her.

 

Tea? She asked. Or alcohol?

We should celebrate! I chose

Tea, and she exited the room.

I stared into the bottle,

The creature regarded me,

Eyes dejected and forlorn.

 

I lifted the bizarre object,

Softly opened the window,

Gently shook the fairy out,

Onto the warm windowsill.

Into the balmy summer’s eve.

And off she gratefully flew!

 

I don’t have any friends now.

Apart from pixie folk.

 

THE INNKEEPER

 

The Innkeeper’s hair is white,

His beard is long, and a smile

Plays on his ruddy countenance.

Bright eyes convey consolation

To the world-weary traveller.

When storm winds fume and

Distressed trees bend and creak,

His dwelling place beckons.

 

His abode is large and hearty,

Radiance glows from its windows.

His provisions are of the finest,

Tankards full and fireside warm.

Calling the lost in from the cold,

When the callous tempest bites.

Should you find him, do not falter.

The innkeeper’s hair is white.

 

SEEKING THE FAIR FOLK

 

When seeking the fair folk.

Follow your heart light,

Leave all doubting behind.

You must set out blithely,

Note all predictions,

With intuition, your guide.

 

You may find them pausing,

Quietly dreaming, ‘neath a

Watching oak tree.

Or hear laughter ring as

They playfully frolic, and flit

From flower to flower.

 

When seeking the wise folk,

You may see them linger

By the old wishing well.

Where ancient trees whisper,

Of secrets long hidden,

Mystical words long forgot.

 

You may find them napping

In the hushed valley, where mist

Rolls down from the hill.

Or perhaps yonder, where

Elvish folk wander, down in

The lost leafy dell

Ursula O’Reilly lives in County Cavan, Ireland, and enjoys writing poetry and fiction. Her other interests include painting, drama  and reading.  Ursula has had her work published online and in numerous magazines including ‘Poetry Plus magazine’, ‘Young Ravens Literary Review’, ‘Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal’, ‘Woman’s Way magazine’, ‘Vita Brevis Poetry Press’, and by ‘Earlyworks Press’.