I felt her presence beneath the trees, and in one look
I saw the spectral figure with the burning book,
Telling tales, of wolves, and kings,
And of butterflies, and rings
She spoke of ancient times, and a penny black queen
Of speckled eggs and things I had never seen
Of Marmite, skulls and fallen leaves
There were magic snails and the silver trails they weave
An agate acorn, and love and hate
Of Celtic torcs and magic gates
Then I noticed she said these things without a sound
And that her feet had left the ground
And as she rose before the break of day
With a winter owl leading the way
I heard it cry; “It’s all a trick of the tale.”