The tequila sunset isn’t just the cocktail sky.
Festival time in Fairy Land.
Gnomes drinking bitter, especially home brew.
Fairies getting high on the latest aquatic rose hip potion,
Handed to their children,
Kindred spirits, these children of the vine
Orchards ripe with apple blossoming, as they grab the fruit,
Before human go-getters grasp at chances to indulge in the sunshine.
But these fairy folk, as the sun finally sets, secretly hide in the vines, beside rose briars, in trees.
Those children of the vine are the poorest, most marginalised of all.
They play lute, harp and banjo.
While the Fairy King and Queen plot to involve humans
In their latest conspiratorial regime.
For fairy folk are no different to human beings, enjoy happy rituals, spring harvest, birthdays, the solstices.
Hertha, the goddess of the Vine
Adores the taste of wine
A fairy fable once said she could turn wine into bread and water into rabbits droppings,
Though she was a cruel spirit.
Made her husband the Water Wizard put the washing out in a blizzard, then changed him into a frog.
She is the mother of the vine
And her children are hordes of desperados
That dutifully recline in the hours before waking
Where you will find their breath on your pillow, a gentle tear stain
Reminding you they are there in the thickets and the vine,
The whispering woods, and that each word caught in anger is carried through the trees
Bringing them closer to awakening.