There was a struggle in the air <br />retreating night and eager dawn <br />grey white mists at half passed four <br />muffling the friendly battle, <br />tonight the fight will be reversed <br />without the use of fog. <br />They do this every day I call <br />say not a word swirling in the mist. <br />We all come out to see, the elves <br />in pointed caps grab my hands <br />pull at my coat and make me dance, <br />steal my clothes until I am as them <br />uncumbered, naked as intended. <br />We dance about the wood <br />through bramble nettle-sting and thorn <br />unharmed by nature's barbs <br />until morning mists disperse <br />and I see me as I am. <br />Where is my coat? I must go home, <br />the keys are in my pocket, <br />there are no fig-leaves in this copse, <br />yet why must I go home? <br />Come with us I hear them say <br />live a life of berries, mosses for a pillow, <br />we will knit a coat for you <br />as warm as you shall need <br />shoes of silver birch. <br />I look back along the twisted path <br />unsure of what to do, <br />your choice, they say, you come here every day, <br />so why not stay, yes why should I not?<br /><br />John Rickell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-people-9/
