You were wordless then. Mountains would belch
And we’d flood the dark forests with fire,
And your tree-nests were torches. And so
You made home in the caves, and one came
Who was bolder than most, and we met
Where the cold skin of Earth cracked and bled
With the soft molten soul of the Sun.
He accepted the gift that we gave.
The millennia sped while you spoke
Of a kingdom of cunning and spite
Or a palace where brimstone lakes lapped;
But you made yourselves masters of flame,
Bouncing sun-balls about in your fury,
And the wildfires are withering your air,
And we love you for all you have learned.
For our time is at hand; now the tale
Of the Sun’s orphaned children, sent spinning,
Embedded in Earth’s cooling ember,
Ends happily. Here at the heart
We have waited and watched and rejoiced
As the bright burning dawn breaks forever
On this blazing new fragment of Faerie,
Till our cinder-blind gaze glows as fondly 
As the Sun on the spark she has spilled.

[Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of print and online publications, including Spectral Realms, Altered Reality, Bowery Gothic, View From Atlantis, Black Petals and others.]