The best time of year,
if you asked Minstrel Fae,
was when the sun rose
up beyond the north woods.
Her legs were now sore
and the storage sheds empty
and each town from Ren
would swear by their craft.
She curled on the bench
that she’d pulled to the railing
of the undersized porch
of their ancestral house.
She watched as the light
crept over the mountains
and ablaze all the valley
in a soft wave of stars.
She knew once the light
had eclipsed the far forests
that the work in the fields
would begin the new year,
and the sowing and tilling
would fill up her days
and then the long harvest
till the light sank again.
But she always preferred
the bright months of day
when the roads were walked freely
and her home smelt divine.
She’d travel to Hither
at her mother’s request
and trade with the bee-maid
or the farmer from Spruce.
But while she was there
she’d sit for a while
at the old stone-carved fountain
in the center of town
and watch as the merchants,
and bards, and black-smiths
kept time with the ebb
of the harvest and tides.
She’d watch as the Oath-Lord
packed up all his wares
and cleaned out his house
for the next one to come,
and piled a hike bag
with all that he loved
and travelled to Comet
till time came again.
And as he departed
She’d brush off her skirts
and finish the oatcake
she’d traded for tea
and would wave to the florist
she’d write to next week
and wandered back north
to her home in the hills.
Written Oct 2022
Cover image by Colin Roe
Fantasy Poetry, Fantasy Poem