The Thorn Where Faeries Wait
Beneath the moon, where shadows cling,
There grows the tree of faerie ring.
Not oak nor ash, but thorn-crowned flame—
The Hawthorn bears a Fae’s true name.
It stands alone on knoll or plain,
A twisted bough through sun and rain.
No farmer dares to touch its root—
No child will pluck its flower or fruit.
For warnings deep in Elven breath:
“To break its branch is to beckon death.”
They say a woman bloomed in white
Still walks beneath its thorns at night.
She is the Queen of Faerie land—
With silver eyes and willow wand.
She led the bard, she kissed his brow—
And took him where no time knows now.
“O mortal, halt. Do not draw near—
This is the place where worlds turn queer.
A single bloom may steal your name—
A single dream may end your claim.”
Hawthorn blossoms, bright in May,
Deck doorways—but must never stay
Inside the hearth, where mortals dwell—
Its scent is sweet, but speaks of spell.
The Faeries dance in bright fire’s breath,
Their laughter twined with life and death.
They leave a thorn beneath your door
If you have trespassed fae folklore.
Yet hang it high above your gate,
And none shall twist your mortal fate.
The Fae may nod, and let you pass—
A soul unharmed by shadows past.
So let it bloom, and give it space—
A warning root, a sacred place.
The Hawthorn keeps the veil so thin—
And marks where Otherworlds begin.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment