How very small,
quiet she would be,
Walking up softly,
to tickle the tree,
So livid with laughter,
A melody of scene,
Escaping out through,
splayed fingers and leaves.

Fleeting sweet dreams.
So lovely a trill,
her voice would quiver,
Throughout the green hills
a pleasant light shiver,
time sensing relapse,
Beginning to tremble,
So hard she did struggle,
to clearly remember.

Uncovered, unshaded.
Only the tree could bear,
Such artistry unaided,
And shuddered to think,
Her beauty had faded.
As late evening fell,
In amber drenched light,
The light of the faerie,
Leapt into the night.

Among high hills,
Dark streams did glisten,
The wind fell silent,
The tree there to listen,
Restless in sleep,
she waits in her dreams,
for memories so vague,
of tall laughing trees.