The green hill on the water watching broods
rolling hidden songs on a tongue of stone.
With the piercing stars and ascending moon
keeps conversations heaped in earth and bones
amidst the tilting shadows of the tombs.
Midnight’s toll rings the brightness of midday
rearing spectral shapes with a sombre tone.
Draped in glamorous grace a fairy race
with loyalty tend the buried magic of the grave.

A doctor and apprentice walking home
are stricken by the chime of passing bells.
Twenty six they count the ominous sum.
“He’s thy age, Robin,” Adam quietly tells.
They halt beholden by the faery spell.
In raiment dark, bright cap quixotic red
a dainty leader chanting dole impels
in pairs a cavalcade of little men
echoing a mournful fairy requiem.

On slender shoulders six bear a coffin,
lid drawn back to reveal a minute corpse.
Adam gasps “it’s the picture of thee, Robin.”