The Poddington Project: Christine DeWinter Shadow Dance The snow was a carpet of softness across the lonely bog A white sheet reflecting the moonlight that dappled through the fog No sound but the field mice footsteps, and the howl of the miller's dog And the vernal snow was calling, a siren call to the faeries The late spring snow was summoning the folk to the Shadow Dance We traipsed through the snow leaving footprints so plain for all to see Unlike any animal footprints from cave to rose to tree Converging on mounds by the river to dance and make merry And the vernal snow made music Mellifluous tunes in the moonlight We whirled and danced in the moonlight, and watched the shadows flee. When faeries are pulled to go dancing, they take a little purse Of faerie-coin gold 'neath their jerkin, in case they bear the curse For during the Shadow Dance fervor, one faerie disappears To walk in the land of the shadows The folk who can't see us, the shadows To live in their midst, like a shadow; a fate all fairies fear. The gold, we are told, is enchanted, and never will run out Becoming the money of shadows to help us get about While waiting in shadows we wander, and long for vernal snow The snow that will call folk to dancing Again to the mounds for the dancing That call forth the faeries to dancing a spell that will bring lost ones home. The king's only son was named Bevan, a comely, strapping lad Pursued by the wanton Filona, who bordered on raving mad If she couldn't wed him she'd kill him, she vowed and shook her arm. She picked up a blade when the snow called To slaughter the prince under snow fall Which so shocked her sister, who saw all and ran to give alarm. The prince heard the frantic warning, as he stepped up to the mound Unable to run from Filona, as the snow began to sound His feet not obeying his bidding, they danced him round and round He watched her approach with her knife drawn The faeries all gasped as the scene dawned The blade sought its mark 'cross the white lawn but fell, untouched, to ground. When Bevan awoke, it was morning, and something was not right The snow that was melting reflected a white, not rainbow light. The primrose was pale and listless, the crocus dark and wan Then he froze as his fate dawned upon ... (The rest of the poem has been destroyed.) (Robyn Peters)