By Madeleine Byrne
There’s a fairy door
At the bottom of my garden.
When I was a baby I would prod and poke
Wondering what it could be,
When I was a toddler I would wait
Wanting to see a fairy,
When I was a child I would stare for hours
Crouched under the great oak tree.
When I was a teenager I soon forgot,
No longer believing you see.
When I was 20 I came back to look
At the magical fairy door,
It was covered in dirt and dust and leaves
Snuggled in the earthen floor.
When I was 30 I had children of my own
And showed them the fairy tree,
They would sit and watch for hours
In case they saw a fairy.
When I was 40 even kids of my own
Were starting to get too old,
And the little door stood forgotten
Covered in dust and mould.
When I was 50 a vicious storm blew
And the tree collapsed to the ground,
The fairy door was buried
Deep under the sand.
When I was 60 I remembered no more
Of that fairy door once there,
No child was innocent enough to believe
To crouch and wait and stare.
But when I was 70 my grandchildren came
And dug in the soft stony earth,
And there they found a strange brick thing;
The fairy door’s rebirth!
It was faded, cracked and filthy
With the doorknob long since gone,
But still it held itself together
Magical and strong.
I looked at it once more and thought
Of all the times no more,
Thought “There’s something quite incredible
About this fairy door.”