A chain I wear of purest silver
‘Round my neck; forged of the Elves of old,
A glass-and-silver vial it bears.
I have no need for gold.
In the vial, pure and sweet,
Are grains, perhaps of sand.
Pink sand from the pinkest beach —
Or not, perhaps, of land.
When parents ask me what it is,
I tell them, “Pretty sand.”
But when their children question me,
I spin a tale of lands
Of elves and faeries and the like,
And dwarfs, and dragons, too.
Of princes and of princesses
Where children’s dreams come true.
A dragon’s scale, lost long ago,
And found and ground to dust.
And stopped up inside this vial
Where only those who trust
Their hearts can see with eyes so clear,
And know my tale is true
Of elves and fae and men and dwarfs.
All dreams, perhaps, yet true.
And so I wear a dragon’s scale,
To powdery grains ground down
It sings to me of times gone by
And fantasies yet to come.