The Magic has left us. What of Love?
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The Leaving

She sits upon her granite throne
Deep within the woodland grove
Knowing soon her home will be gone
With it, all the things she loved

Breezes whisper through the trees
Sunbeams, casting shafts of flickering light
Songbirds sing, Squirrels chatter in the trees
Weeping, she knows she has lost the fight.

Sunlight glitters in her Golden hair
Blue eyes weary from all the pain
Skin so pale her face so fair
Purple crown made from floral chains.

She hears a distant constant roar
As if, ancient Dragons have returned
The smell of smoke across the forest floor
Scars where the beast her trees have burned

She rises up and calls her own
They gather round her ancient feet
They feel the danger evil seeds have grown
Within their breasts proud hearts beat.

She turns and walks towards the Oak
Within her hand, the Golden keys
Elven subjects follow at her look
They passed from human eyes to see.

Shafts of sunlight flickered in that woodland grove
The day that magic left this land
Chainsaws killed that land of love
Ancients wept as ancient trees, tumbled to the ground.

Robin A Spicer © June 13, 2004