In a cottage by whispering wood, where shadow plays with light,
There lived a seamstress, bent with care, who toiled each dawn till night.
Her needle danced through fabric worn, her thread a silver line,
But words she wove with sharper sting, on those she named “mine.”
“Behave, my child, or mark my words, I’ll sell you off to gypsies’ kin,
They’ll take you far to lands unknown, where light is dim, and dark begins.”
Her child, she trembled, small and meek, ‘neath her mother’s scorn,
But unseen by all, were pixies near who overheard her every word.
The pixies, swift as winter winds, took flight to spread the tale,
They whispered to the Little Folk, who dwelled in mossy vale.
These kindred souls, with hearts so light, yet strong as ancient trees,
Decided then, without a pause, to set the child free.
One moonlit night, when all was still, and stars hung bright and low,
The Little Folk crept soft as dreams, their faces all aglow.
They found the child in slumber deep, her breath a tender sigh,
And with a touch, as light as air, they whisked her to the sky.
They raised her in the hidden glen, where secrets old are kept,
Where roots entwine with magic’s thread, and ancient spirits sleep.
She learned the ways of leaf and stone, of river’s song and flame,
A druid she became, quite wise indeed, with powers none could name.
She spoke to trees, and they would bend, their branches full of grace,
She healed our earth, where she found it scarred, and nurtured every place.
And in her heart, a gentle fire, for all children lost and cold,
And she welcomed them, both young and old, into her forest fold.
The Little Folk, her family dear, would dance in moonlit glades,
They’d sing of love, of forest deep, where light and shadows wade.
And when the seamstress, bent and worn, called out for her child lost–
The wind replied with whispered sighs, empty echoes of her biting frost.
Her hands, once nimble, now felt slow,
and every stitch she pulled, every thread did show–
The bitter words she’d sewn with spite, left her lonely every night.
The empty hearth, the silent bed, her child gone, as good as dead.
And now she stood by door ajar, her heart a warden of her scars.
But far away, the druid stood, her hands upon the earth,
She felt the call, yet did not turn, for she had learned her worth.
Faery’s Reach was now her home, the Little Folk her guide,
And in her care, the lost and found, would evermore reside.
So if you hear the seamstress' tale, of words that carried woe,
Remember that the forest deep, holds secrets none may know.
For in its heart, a druid stands, with power old and true,
Protecting all sweet wayward souls, ‘neath our Mother Moon.
Hold dear the hearts you call home, and guard with gentle care,
Nurture well the ones you love–
Young are curious, inexperienced and often unaware.
For words, like winds, can cut or heal, their power sharp and strong,
And when pixies hear a bitter tongue, they’ll work magics to right the wrong.
