Whispered in the hollows where the moonlight pools,
They tread soft as deer, neither seen nor heard —
The fae, the fair folk, the hidden ones,
Keepers of the old ways, bound to root and stone.

In the gardens of Persepolis, where the peri dance,
Silken-winged spirits spill fragrance like silver rain,
Brushing roses with fingers of starlight,
Gifting mortals glimpses of joy and sorrow entwined.

Marie de France wrote of knights and lovers,
Yet behind her lais, the laughter of unseen guests
Hummed through the ivy, tapped on the windowpane,
Guiding the quill with a secret, sacred hand.

They dwell beneath oak and yew,
In alder swamps and hawthorn groves,
Sipping sunlight through emerald leaves,
Nestling in hollows, listening to the wind’s confessions.

Nicnevin stirs in the Scottish mist,
Her cauldron of midnight dreams bubbling,
Calling her children from hill and loch,
To dance the ring where the worlds meet.

Be wary, yet reverent, if you wander where they dwell —
Offer bread, or berries, or a song of thanks,
For the Good Neighbors watch as we sleep,
And in their silence, the old magic waits.

[Ria Cabral writes: I juggle books, chocolate, kids, a wonderful husband, dirty toilets, neglected laundry, and a deep love for stories — though rarely in that order. https://www.riacabralauthor.com/]