The Little People Poem by John Rickell

There was a struggle in the air
retreating night and eager dawn
grey white mists at half passed four
muffling the friendly battle,
tonight the fight will be reversed
without the use of fog.
They do this every day I call
say not a word swirling in the mist.
We all come out to see, the elves
in pointed caps grab my hands
pull at my coat and make me dance,
steal my clothes until I am as them
uncumbered, naked as intended.
We dance about the wood
through bramble nettle-sting and thorn
unharmed by nature's barbs
until morning mists disperse
and I see me as I am.
Where is my coat? I must go home,
the keys are in my pocket,
there are no fig-leaves in this copse,
yet why must I go home?
Come with us I hear them say
live a life of berries, mosses for a pillow,
we will knit a coat for you
as warm as you shall need
shoes of silver birch.
I look back along the twisted path
unsure of what to do,
your choice, they say, you come here every day,
so why not stay, yes why should I not?