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The Fairy Door, a poem

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.”


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