Little people wander in the swamp at eventide

Pinching rusty crickets so they shriek:

Turning on the fireflies in the field beyond the barn;

Helping whip-poor-wills play hide and seek.

Dusky-dim the woodlands where they whisper silent dreams;

Soughing through the pine trees on the breeze;

Silhouettes of silver in the dewy moonlit air;

Fading into shadows if they please

Wee folk tip-toe through the gray of forests deep;

Floating eerie lanterns in the fen;

Bouncing on the bog-moss with mysterious delight;

Transitory phantoms of the glen.

Watch for signs of stardust – silver circles on the sand.

Venture not within the magic ring.

You may find your spirit gone to twilight worlds below…

Slave to some capricious elfin king!

Phyllis Olson ©