Fairyland

I filled my wallet with white stones,
I took three foxgloves in my hand,
I slung my shoes across my back,
And so I went to fairyland.

- G.K. Chesterton

As we drove up our mountain to our home one day my eyes gazed to the left where down the steep slope as far as my eyes could reach, were tall, elegant trees and an abundance of foliage, with shafts of late afternoon light casting an elvish glow. For a few moments I was caught in a scene of the departing elves, travelling through the land to the Grey Havens. I could almost hear their gentle song of woods and trees.

A peaceful quality came over me, sequestered in the hilly landscape with trees taller than our view and an ancient feeling left behind. No sound was heard. No rustle of feet, but I am sure some elves were passing nearby wearing thin, flowing gowns that melted into the slanting light.

A glimpse perceived, but not a second chance. Look again and it is only a breeze shifting the leaves along the path. Are they well traveled by the wood-folk?

In an ancient place we pass through a land inhabited by old stories and dreamy light, with possibilities endless of both sadness and delight.

The light through the trees shifted as we climbed the mountain and soon I was taken out of the dream and dropped back to life when the car jolted to a stop. But as I stepped out of the car I caught a faint glimmer out of the corner of my eye, in the direction of woods, which I suspect was a flowing elvish gown passing along some ancient paths into the depths of the woods.