by M Ni B., Longford

THE ” GOOD PEOPLE”

Down from their secret haunt they come, A-trooping down the hill,

green jackets, red caps, white owl feather

–  proud and bold they step together

The yellow moon doth guide them, as implishly they leap

their wizened crinkled faces, as old as rivers deep.

At midnight  ’round the red hot coal, they toast their tiny feet,

sipping clean Spring  water, they  search for loosened teeth.

They frown on itchy noses, a bed that’s facing West,

a web they love to weave around, the  Stranger or the  Guest.

Theý’re still around,  those little folk, who are both wild and free,

don’t lend an egg or spill the salt,

for certain they will point and say

”these humans are at fault”