Silence

The gate

Flowers in full bloom,

In soft cosy beds.

Birds, flitting between the trees,

Singing love songs everywhere.

Butterflies supping, serenely,

From the platter of gay coloured delights.

Frogs and toads via for supremacy,

Ribbeting shouts of defiance.

Green grass, soft and comforting,

Luring you enticingly for a lie down.

Scents of spring waft in brownian motion,

Dancing, spreading their alluring aroma.

In my yard all are safe,

All are perfect...

My red gate stands resolutely closed,

A barracade to the outside world,

Keeping safe the secret of my garden.

Within these walls dwell the last,

Of the once revered fae.

Forgotten they are,

Rebuked, resigned to the ashen heap.

However here they survive.

Faeries fly with the butterflies,

Racing them across my garden.

Leprechauns rest in the shade,

Counting their gold, drinking their ale,

Their green jackets spinning in the dryer.

Hobgoblins, pixies, wraiths, the list goes on,

All are here, in hiding, enjoying the sanctity.

I rest upon my swing,

Gently moving, enjoying the breeze,

The sun laughingly shines upon the tableau,

Painting shades wantonly.

Outside my gate,

A crunching sound heralds an approach,

In a flurry of worry,

All flee to their secret abodes,

To await the passing.

Louder the crunching grows,

Till before my gate stands a ghastly site.

From neck to toe, in pitch black,

With a single white, Hitler moustache colar,

Stands the town priest,

His pale white face glistens with sweat,

I cannot help but feel utter distaste!

Should he wear a hood,

I would swear Death, had come for tea.

His jovial wave at me is not returned,

I sure hope he goes away!

One swift movement he opens the gate,

Steps right in as if he owns my place.

The audacity of this little man,

How dare he trespass so?

I rise, try to guide him back out,

But he insists upon having tea.

He dares wave some scones at me.

I sigh belatedly...

Finally...reluctantly I might add,

I welcome him in.

I cringe as he takes my arm,

As I lead him in.

Outside a thousand eyes watch him go.

Inside I brew some Earl Grey,

Ask him casually if he wishes to stay.

With a bellow of a laugh,

For a man so small,

He acknowledges willingly.

He proffers a scone which I decline,

And drinks heartily of the tea.

He takes a strawberry nearby,

Pops it in his mouth,

While chewing, he raises some questions,

Why do I not attend church and so forth?

I watch as he slowly changes,

From man to gnarly hobgoblin.

Why do all priest become hobgoblins?

I might just never know.

He does not even realise the transformation.

I rise and shush him out my kitchen,

His play area is now outside.

To date I have now nine hobgoblins,

All priests...

I wonder if they will ever run out of priests?

I sit by my bay window,

And look at the last of my subjects,

Survey with love their frolicking play.

I should really put up a sign on the gate.

It is getting a bit crowded here.