Through weavings of bramble and hedge,
shaded from the blue and sun, play salamander,
fairies, good and bad alike ( this,determined by
interpreters of Dream); these are mossy, dust,
limber - hidden. Their common element
is fire, sparked by magic, glimmered flakes
of mayfly wing, bubbling soup of phosphor.
I am scion of a line of druid priests. We were
angels once, beings of the golden chord,
til, thrown to earth for drowning in the cup of pride.
Some of us repented here. Others
have mutated into demon skin. I am
elven, airy brother to a scattered band of wanderers.

All who live here touch their limbs to sod,
walk in footsteps, pounded rhythm of erratic pulse,
heartbeat, energy in bone and clay - a temporary life
( everything material is only here for now
to play some whimsy's part
and then, we all return ).

So, I live amongst Diaspora of Abraham,
rub my shoulders with these men
and women, haggard denizens of
subway car and cafeteria. I, the stranger
no one wants to sit beside, watching for the spark
behind the scowl, looking for the special ones.
I recognize these ancient souls
cacooned in human sheaths. Most of them
forget the nature of the Dream: weavings of electric wire
and aqueduct, networks of computer pathways
binding up a global mind.

Once, today in fact,
I walked a littered pavement through
a gloomy scene of urban blight, saw a wino
propped against a shopping cart
pillowed by a wad of New York Times. He was elven,
I could tell; there were tattooed runes across his wrist.
I was certain, as our eyes connected,
that he knew me for his kin. He was drunk,
had drooping lids of yellow tears
and grit, together hardened in the slant.

"What's the point?" he asked. "Everything is gone.
Cities are no place for faerie folk. I haven't
seen a tree in weeks. Drunk as drunk can be
and nothing else is real. Nothing else is real."

"Who are you?" he asked again,
in language that began to swim with Celtic poetry.
"Who are you, in corduroy and super cut?"
"You have light," I said. "It's just a feeble flicker,
yet, it's still alive. You are meant for better things,
meant to cross the sky in chariot of rainbow,
meant for dance, and fantasy, and elemental lustiness."

"No!" he argued back. "This is not a speech
I need to hear. None on earth desire
our dance of light. Times have changed,
and Thomas Edison has put an end to us."

But
I could not let it go. Could not ignore
the truth of who we were
and what it was inside
that drew me towards the sun
that, even in that moment, strained to cut its way
through clouds above our heads. So,
I bent, and lifted him, bore him in my arms
across a dozen crowded avenues, walked for hours
until we came to Central Park
where we rested in a clearing
ringed by giant rocks, sat against a tree
to watch, as children sailed their model sailboats
on the pond. "See," I told my brother.
"There are sparkles on the water,
light in children's eyes. There is still a chance
that we might call the magic forth. Light is light
wherever it may shine. We are made from light
and - could it be that,
here and now, our race will find a working way
- some way to mingle with that human spark?"

Then, he looked me in the eye
with hungry, searing confidence. "Let us make
a circle in this place, form a faerie ring
of pebbles and of bottle caps.
Yes, we'll call the brethren here
and raise a different song,
forge another magic,
cast this age of shadow out
from dixieland
to Disneyland,
from China
to the glaciers of Antarctica...

Now begins the Time of Light.
I can feel it in my bones.
Our magic will return. "

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