Wild Thing
This morning when, at my window I stood,
Sipping my coffe and reflecting on good,
A creature stirred near the edge of the wood,
So amazing and lovely I scarcely could,
Believe my eyes for there in the light,
Stood so quietly; soft, frail and slight,
This unearthly, beautiful sprite.
Slowly and softly from the window I crept,
To the case where my camera I kept,
And gathered my gear and quickly stepped,
Back to the window not daring to accept,
That I might capture an image wild,
Of this lovely ethereal nature's child,
Who had me so easily beguiled.
She moved through the foliage with silent grace,
Clearly not of this world nor of our race,
My heart skipped a beat with she raised her face,
To look in my eye and smile with a trace,
Of sadness so clearly etched in her heart,
That humankind had become so smart,
We no longer believed in the mysterious art,
Of magic and legend and creatures of mirth,
Or spirits and sprites, not of this earth,
Evidence of which, I'll admit 'tis dearth,
But does not detract one wit from their worth.
She looked away and picked a bloom;
I raised my camera, focused and zoomed,
And took this image out of the gloom.
She did not startle, but fled right away,
This wonderful, mysterious Grace of the fae,
Under my mechanical scrutiny unwilling to stay.
And the last that I saw was the grasses sway,
As she passed from the light and into the glen,
And faded from the sight of all men,
Not to be seen until belief comes again.
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