When I was about sixteen years old, my Dad took my sisters and I on a Sunday trip around B&Q (a hardware store in England) and we chatted about theme parks. I followed in his footsteps in that I was a little thrill-seeker just like him. We said we wanted to visit Alton Towers, a theme park about three hours away from my home (which to me, quite untraveled, was a fair distance). We said we would go the next year.

To me he would live forever, he was the strongest person in the world. To him, the back brace to hold his spine in place squeezed a little too tightly for future rollercoaster adventures, but he was as enthusiastic as me all the same. If we could have one more day together, we'd splash out on those pricey queue-skipping tickets and ride Nemesis and Oblivion, and drift along the Congo River Rapids. Then we'd have pizza and donuts, and get keyrings made of our terrible ride photos.

The wee folk, the fairies, the little people. Many names are given to these most wondrous of wisps, these pixie-dust imps and wood-dwelling nymphs, riding high atop dragonfly’s backs, dipping in a stream causing ripples; their favourite tipple a sip from a honeydew cup. Iridescent wings flutter-so-lightly, brightly tipped, leaving trails incandescent with love. Foxglove is like Buddleia to a butterfly; they’ll flutter by a buttercup and land on your forget-me-nots. Hobgoblins, trolls, dwarves and gnomes; brownies and banshees and dryads of trees. Beware the fairy ring, for stepping in, the toadstool will fool you, and steal you away to the kingdom of fae. These elves and sprites could escape your sight, but know that our tales of fairies are not myth, they exist, nature spirits by day and dancing by night.

In spring I am the babe

Nestled in a flowerbed

A sprout of creation released into the world.

In summer I am the maiden

Adorned with white dress and floral crown

Ripening fruit in the noonday sun.

In autumn I am the mother

A belly swollen, carrying the seed

Giving birth to next season's blooms.

In winter I am the crone

Withering stalk, head heavy with knowledge

Hunched and waiting for winter's end.

Now I am but worm food

Decomposing in the earth

My soul dispersed again.

Falling leaves and pumpkin spice

a carpeted floor of reds, oranges, a secret of green.

Did you see which way the rabbit went?

The flowers are dying now

the ones piled up

to remember the dead.

She was found in the forest

her body strewn out

like marbles.

Squirrels are gathering

birds are abandoning

but the forest stays.

Its presence is fairytale and terror.

Enchanting for a walk to get lost in your dreams

of fairies and unseen things.

Tragic for the hiding places

and ivy covered faces

consumed by the dangers of

The Forest.

I left that grey castle

like every other day

and every day thereafter.

Midday to escape the coffee-making talks

the weekend-breaking squawks

the fluorescent tubes buzzing above my head.

And the screen which never slept.

I walked head down, past lunchtime drivers

and car park diners.

I walked away to the forest.

Four hours of nerves

escaped on my breath, recycled by the trees

into fresh ideas.

The crunch of the leaves

the smell of the dirt

and nothing the colour of grey.

I lay with the dead flowers, the ones to remember her by.

I was jealous of her decaying beauty.

She had escaped this world of

black mirrors

worn down fingers

and tightly closed windows.

Her secret resting place

her ivy covered face

embraced by the wonders of

The Forest.

Until my eyes dry up

And my hair’s wearing thin

My teeth have decayed

And my heart falls silent

I’ll love you.

Until there’s a roach

That lives in my skull

My blood runs dry

And my bones turn to dust

I’ll love you.

The first sight of you

Brought death ever closer.

But until then.

I’ll love you.

In the dark we see

All the things

That roam

In the darkest corners

Of our dim-lit minds.

We see the fears

We feel the hairs

On the back

Of our neck

Stand on end.

We hear

The voices

Not in our head

But a hair’s breadth

From our eyelids.

I think I may have lost my way

I’m in the woods, come out to play

The little people all they say

Is I'll be dinner for the fae.

The way is dark so follow me

I know a doorway in that tree

The woodland creatures all they say

Is I’ll be dinner for the fae.

I know not how to put my thoughts to paper,

as in the interim of my mind and mouth

the thoughts are caught in an unintelligible net,

whereby the essence is the catch -

held back and hauled up

by the chains of reasoning.

And the only thing to slip through therewith

is the bone dust of the meaning -

a fossilised clue but not

the entire creature.

The creature has long been dead,

for it was borne to a higher realm

and travelled some distance

to reach the lighthouse calling

of my head.

By which time it was hunchbacked

and blistered;

having fought its way through

tumultuous terrain,

to rest weary on my brain

and brush faintly against my heart.

I look at the paper in wonder:

Surely the creature carried a message

less ominous?

Or perhaps am I so capricious in nature

that the poor creature stands no chance

of begetting the world

its ethereal scripture.

What remains are not thoughts, nor feelings,

but a mere glimpse that once, aeons ago,

our words were untainted miracles.

I am left encumbered with a heavy heart,

an overstuffed brain,

all the feelings and thoughts

too grandiose, too inspiring

to slip through the filter of that odious beast

named Conditioning.

By my cursive misdemeanour

and that beast on my tail,

the true thought dies at my pen tip.

Ascending the grand, creaky staircase, my fingers left trails in the thick layer of dust on the handrail. The blood-red message had been graffitied across the ancient portrait for three days now:

I'm in the walls.

Plasterboard was shredded to pieces; every resident on search duty, but no trace of the spectral painter. My husband, master of the house, had laid all manner of traps in an attempt to catch the fiend - to no end.

Phantom breezes; eerie wailing; spontaneous fireplace eruptions. Even the beloved pet hound hanging from the bannister. I was particularly proud of that last one.