Blessed Be the Meek is a fairy poem, casting a spotlight on the immeasurable value of kindness and gentleness and how they’re forever badly needed.
Blessed Be the Meek – a Fairy Poem
Mid-city square, people are pitching forks.
Short wicks and glimmerless bulbs won’t do.
No one will stage her chapped finger or case his brittle bones.
Invisibility is their sickness as yet undocumented.
Only the meek see the meek.
And the wolves,
gagging for the finest fibres, the tiniest holes,
the perked lips of a butterfly, the salty buoy.
She and he cower under a rock.
How sweet the weight of granite!
Sweeter still the heat beneath
and how it slides through thin skins,
on and beyond, toward huskless grains and peeled corns,
his tilted pelvis and her rippled ribcage
and into the loudmouths of babes. The choir seldom
requires faint voices, his stammer or her clambering
yet salt buoys a line of paper lanterns now dotted on the sea.
A thousand flickering flames float a boat full of fairies.
With their wings, they fan breath into our mouths
and down the night. Their tiny fingers scribble songs
into the soil till trees wear an ivy robe. She pours dewdrops
from a daisy jug, and he decants sparkles
from a vase of meadow flowers into our cupping hands
bursting the banks of dry throats.