Not all stores have a LOST CHILDREN section,
but they should. You would not believe the ghosts
who pass through, confused, an endless legion
unaware that they’re dead. I love these Hosts
of the Air, as the Irish call them. Fey,
banshee-wild-eyed and wailing. I wail, too.
As do you. A child is bewitched away,
a sop of wood left in her place. Who knew
you could fall in love with a changeling?
You were once a child of honey, hemlock
and wine. Some say you can’t go back. Bollocks!
Childhood is not a one-way bridge. Dreaming
of the Fairy Down, come, hold me, we’ll walk
entwined, until dawn break and the crow cocks.