Brown the earth beneath the crocuses,
dark, rich, sweet.
brown the eyes that look upon them,
seeing the shadows meet.
One shadow – hers, of the fairy,
her hair the colour of wheat,
and the crocuses, small and perfect,
lying at her feet.
Golden – the light of September,
born in the gentle flowers.
And golden her heart, her fingers loving,
her silent surprising power.
The Dryad - the singer, the dream
of the old oak’s night,
the music of autumn colours,
the flight of the fearless kite.
A prayer her voice is,
the sound of the wind she sings,
the sunrise her attire,
her soul the wild of the forests green.
You are her – the Dryad,
the promise of the trees,
their memory, their lone grace,
their wisdom and their peace.