She never answers when I call
but sits alone and mutters
or goes amongst the old ash trees
and whispers to the leaves.
I can’t decipher all she says,
the words are never plain,
but the music of their pattern
is always much the same.
She plays with mud and twigs
and lays them out repeatedly
in one ornate design.
Like hieroglyphs
they seem to have significance,
but she won’t write her name.

Her teachers and her parents
are much disturbed by her.
They say she’s on the borderline
of a broad and complex spectrum
that I don’t understand.
I ask, in jest, if she might be
a special rainbow child.
No-one smiled.
I’m here as the au pair.
I just let her play.

We have to get away.
There is avoidance in her eyes.
She simply won’t obey.
That much is very clear.
They want her analysed.

I know she’s wild
but I have secrets
I am not prepared to share.
She chases hawks away from mice.
She calls the birds to comb her hair
and lets them hide in there.
When she sleeps the owl hoots twice,
the fox creeps from its lair
and sidles past my fireside chair
to rest all night contented,
dreaming at her feet.
The family is complete.

She’s turbulent.
She’s troublesome.
She’s stubborn
and she’s free.
She’s very gifted too,
but we won’t let them see.
I know it’s very strange indeed,
a little fae for sure.
She’s always been my own sweet child,
there’s no changing that.
We have to make a plan
and spin it very soon.
I must discuss it with my cat
before the next full moon.