Darkening Sunday evening, birds ruffle down,
footling through twigs, featherbedding leaves.
Charmed as children, we follow the river
and fall across a fairytale, where a house
in a clearing is lit bright as any lantern,
full to the gunnels with good witches, princes,
sleepless beauties bearing magic potions;
and God’s elderly helpers, fighting off time
with clipboard shields and pencil swords.
Reading between the lines of the tired and scared
they whisper soothing silvered words
of hope and happy endings.
Harry Gallagher
