Fairies

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Dandelions I have seen growing in verges and parks near my home in Sydney appear to be a smaller variety to the ones I grew up with in England, UK. My assumption that this ‘weed’ is not native to Australia is confirmed on the Survival and Self Sufficiency website.

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This dandelion somehow survived a recent lawn cutting in the park to produce the familiar feather light ball of seeds I knew as fairies. I would release them by blowing on the ball to watch them float gently into the air. The medicinal and nutritious properties of this humble plant may be responsible for its magical reputation, you can find more about this on My Virtual Flower blog.

More Precious than Gold

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A breath or breeze bringing music, a kiss;
It’s cool, it’s hot, it’s crisp, it’s warm, it’s cold;
Carrying Winter’s chill and Summer’s bliss.
What wealth would be reaped if twas caught and sold!

Fair sylphs ‘twined within the east wind do whirl
With graceful ease o’er rainbows wide they dance;
Through fluffy clouds on thermals fast they twirl,
They soar. Are they in danger? Not a chance!

Cannot be seen; doesn’t mean it’s not there,
Lots’ around yet far more precious than gold.
Endangered? For now there’s enough to share.
Can be cut with a knife; just try to hold!

During darkness of night and light of day,
Ideas and thoughts are shed just like feathers
Free as sweet incense floating up, away.
Not one’s intent? Best to attach tethers!

Anger can be heard as clear as a bell,
The strife of life cannot be ignored.
How can we tell if it’s heaven or hell?
Listen for the hoard or the lord with sword.

Wide eyed fairy’s sigh heard from on high,
Warn those below “trouble comes, be away”,
Shy souls now cry out in fright as they fly,
“No good will come; now go, leave the affray”.

Strained moments pass the tension is immense,
Time to think is bought and conflict caught short,
Need not choose from flight or fight, they’ve seen sense,
Once again destructive thought’ve come to naught.

(c) Robert Jones 2013, All Rights Reserved

Butterfly thoughts

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Fairy thoughts;
Butterflies in my head
Flit, float, glide every way,
On gossamer wings.
Too many to count,
Too many to catch.
Ideas bursting forth
As sparks from fire soar free,
Flying to burn brightly,
Twisting, twirling, twinkling,
Glowing, fading, to die.
Forgotten.

(c) Robert Jones 2013, All Rights Reserved