Wednesday, 15 June 2016
Ever since The Sidhe were rudely expelled from their native Éire by the evil bastard Druids, they headed South and crossed the seas, in order to head for a new more peaceful home in Aquitaine.
Here they installed themselves in sun-dappled woodland glades, where they are little seen, or even known of, by native populations.
However, those who venture amongst the Oaks and Chestnuts, well before the dew is off the Badgers' whiskers, do occasionally see them; I myself have caught glimpses.
Rather like W B Yeats who, in the Liffy kissed city of Dublin, saw The Sidhe disguised as copies of The Irish Times, I spotted several yesterday morning whilst out collecting mushrooms. But they are no simpletons The Sidhe; as soon as I turned to face them, they transformed themselves, not into old newspapers, but into gnarled and ancient trees.
I shall see them again; I am sure, and they will again hastily transform themselves into trees so as not to be seen. And as soon as my foraging is done, they will dance amongst the bracken as is their wont, leaving their tiny footprints to be spotted by those who dare to dream.