january fairy

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Back in her box on a bed of cotton wool

the January fairy closes her eyes with a tiny click.

Laid on wings of wire and net,

dusty tissue covering her faded dress.

Gauzy girl, she knows nothing of spring breezes,

has never seen a daffodil,

felt the warmth of a summer night.

The fall of leaves in autumn is a mystery -

she’s never seen the budding of the trees.

Each year she is surprised how big

the children have all grown.

Some years, a familiar face is gone…


Presents change their shape beneath her tree.

Teddies and building blocks,

dolls houses, skipping ropes and bicycles

all gone.

More threads of silver from her tinsel crown

are lost.

The star on her wand is just a little scuffed.

But it has been a good Christmas.


Put away for the last time –

next year there’ll be an artificial tree -

she dreams,

she smells the heady scent of pine,

queen of a vintage fairy tale.



◄ dead sheep

city in the sand ►


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Ged Thompson

Thu 15th Aug 2013 01:20

I love fairies, this is very sad in a way and very poignant. I really felt for that poor little fairy.

But thats why I love fairy tales so much the yin/ yang, bitter/ sweet.

Hidden depths of darkness that lie beneath the sparkles.

I absolutely love this Poem,

Thankyou for writing it X

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David Blake

Wed 6th Feb 2013 18:31

I very much like this. Especially the part about the changing of the seasons and the fact the fairy will never know them. Good work!

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Nick Clifton

Mon 21st Jan 2013 05:31

The brief and yet wonderful two-week world, and repeated year on. No expectation of things others know. The main world is the inside of a box. Never known is never missed. The brighter side of things not taken. A great joy, ta muchly.

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Ann Foxglove

Sun 20th Jan 2013 11:38

Thanks guys!xx

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Sun 20th Jan 2013 00:10

I agree with Isobel's last line. The freedoms were never really there, but we were young and without all the trauma of modern day living. Life was simpler even if fraught with relative problems. It's that simplicity which I surmise gives the sense of freedoms back then. As kids back then though, we were impoverished and I guess restricted in many ways and in knowing this too, we can feel a certain amount of purgatory in this world we have grown to reach.

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Sat 19th Jan 2013 22:15

I like this Anne - it brings back memories of childhood and of the decorations we brought out every year. For some reason it's the ones that my mum put on the Christmas cake that stick in my mind - some mangy old reindeers and brush like christmas trees, that got mangier by the year. Impossible to think of them without remembering the smells of Christmas though - and you capture this in your poem.

There's a sadness in this. Nostalgia for happier times and lost freedom - or freedom that was never really there.

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Sat 19th Jan 2013 22:04

Hi Anne, a great poem I feel. It does also fill me with a little sadness too. In my younger years and later in life I have always been around the plastic christmas tree. I have never experienced a pine one. What fills me with sadness though is that I am unlikely too experience a pine one because of my own ethics concerning the chopping down of trees. When we were younger I suppose we could take these things for granted but now, we cannot without a certain amount of guilt.

For some reason, because of the poems sense of history, it gives me the impression of a time where there was space and innocence to life. I guess along with the plastic tree, we feel more artificial in this world these days.

A very moving touching poem.

Stay well.



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Graham Sherwood

Sat 19th Jan 2013 17:25

Nicely written Ann (Happy New Year by the way). I wonder how many of us have a special Christmas tree decoration that only sees the light of day for a short time each year. How clever to document the changes (in people and things) that she is witness to.
A lovely idea. I wished I'd had it! Very best wishes, Graham

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Yvonne Brunton

Fri 18th Jan 2013 23:00

Ah the treasure of the ritual. When seen through the eyes of the fairy the passage of time does not dim the memories of christmas' past. And the sadness of the 'familiar face' that is missing adds a poignency to her immortality - until the threat of a artificial tree highlights her vulnerability.
Lovely poem. xx

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Fri 18th Jan 2013 21:11

It indeed is a beautiful, memory-laden ritual-of-sorts. A splendid poem that rings warm and true. It's also a sign that we step closer to Spring! Thanks for sharing.

tony sheridan

Fri 18th Jan 2013 20:30

I have still got a plastic Father Cristmas that is over 60 years old. My nana gave it to me when I was a kid. Every year He takes pride of place! Take care, Tony.

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