"It is the strangest thing," I said,
"to have mirrors in the trees."
He shook his head,
and quietly said
"It seems you do not see."

The mirrors in this bright new tree
did sparkle and shimmer
faster than the swirling mire
of which this land never tires.
So too, do reflections never dimmer.

In the fading light I simmer
pondering the mirror bark;
A faeries' forest made by hands
dotting the land like grains of sand
so thick my heart could miss the mark.

The old man lit a spark
which 'round me flowed like wildfire.
He spat, "It is a miracle my pet,"
to cover the red in the wet
through which the forest moved with finger-spires.

So did my vision thus expire,
and the blanket of Dread
mask the looking-glass
with just one sweeping pass
to settle in the forest bed.

"It is the strangest thing," I said,
"to see no mirrors in my bed..."

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