Once I Saw a Fairy
The everyday magic of green spaces.
Once I saw a fairy there.
Over there, by the tree that grew first along the ground before turning skyward. The one that forms a perfect bench. The willow, behind the broken shopping trolley. Do you see it?
I used to sit there after school and draw patterns in the bracken with my feet. Make chains out of the overgrown grass instead of daisies. Pretend that this was an emerald glade in the center of a dense forest; not a spare patch of trees, on a boggy scrap of land too water-logged to build on.
The fairy? Yes, I saw it.
It was spring, too early in the year to be warm. I was walking the dog. I came to the tree and let the dog sniff around alone. There was less rubbish here then.
No one else was around save for a car.
I was in my patch of trees. My green space.
Long branches hung around me. Blocked out the brick boxes and the snaking black of the road. I sat on the tree trunk, turning a smooth pebble in my hand, thinking nothing.
The breeze dipped and rose like a wave. I was surrounded by dandelion seeds. Enveloped, as though I were a planet surrounded by stars.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Only for a moment, but it was there.
Fluttering wings and a celestial giggle.
Then the seeds dropped to the ground. It was gone. The cacophony of suburbia came flooding back to my ears.
I turned to where it had been. In its place sat a bluebell, fully bloomed.
So I know it was a fairy.
Yes, even here in the land of square houses and manicured lawns. Even here there is magic, where it is allowed to grow.
