Party on the hillside
The invitations left the house one sunny afternoon:
They whipped out through the ether on that fateful day in June.
And witches, wizards, trolls and fairies, all across the land,
Began to set intention: Each to plant a grain of sand.

And on the very hottest day July had seen that year,
They met beyond the threshold and the trappings of their fear
On the rolling Devon hillside, at house upon the slope;
It was one of many meetings in this age of fresh new hope.

People hugged and kissed and laughed and talked and ate and played.
Soul was in abundance. This was clearly displayed.
Moments of appreciation, honesty and spark,
Untethered vulnerability ; a light for every dark.

Many shades of love were forged with food and talk and touch.
Everyone, accessibly, received and gave as such.
A time to see what’s real; to see what’s to be seen,
The King of Trolls attended with the fabled Ginger Queen.

Also in attendance was the Kitchen alchemist,
He created several masterpieces, all without a list.
A Queen of Hearts, a Prince of faces, parent, adult, child,
The Warrior, the Goblin Priest (who always laughed and smiled.)

Every human faction was accounted for that day.
Seeds were planted. Some will grow. It’s always been that way.
And meetings of this nature seem to happen more and more.
As more and more of us walk out beyond that final door.

16th July 2013 ©Simon Welsh Poetry