Welcome to The Pixie Knoll!
Follow me to the Pixie Knoll,
where tales abound,
and lore unfolds.
Fairies that frolic, both young and old;
and trolls with dark secrets still untold,
Here, they all live within the knoll.
Little mushroom homes,
small shutters and doors,
cobblestone paths seeking places to forge.
Tiny twig fences and wishing wells,
a spot where the ancients love to dwell,
Come, stop by, and sit a spell.
Dark nooks and deep crannies,
trolls hide where it's rainy,
under bridges, in marshlands and moors.
They live in old logs,
way down in the bogs,
their neighbors are spiders, toads and frogs!
Sing the song of shimmering wisp,
in the dewlight morning crisp.
The sun extends his warm embrace;
the forest awakens from his grace,
where dawn's faint light is on the cusp,
souls rekindled with life to lust.
Right as a sprite in the morning light,
The forest awakens with all it's might,
they toil and tarry,
oh, what a sight!
They'll hustle and bustle,
'til the evening night.
Like a troupe of fireflies,
in the evening they arise,
with wicked dance they mesmerize,
their woodland songs are naturized,
and much to my complete surprise
they begin to etherize!
The stars in the sky now outnumber,
wee little pixies who are encumbered,
from play of the day and hours of labour,
to their cotton beds they start to clamber;
their hearths die down to only embers
the Knoll now silent and deep in slumber.
Day or night, it's sure to delight,
to see a troll or a sprite;
you never know what you may find,
in this land of gold and grime;
So come with me for a stroll,
and visit the folk of pixie knoll.
poem by: Lori Platt
where tales abound,
and lore unfolds.
Fairies that frolic, both young and old;
and trolls with dark secrets still untold,
Here, they all live within the knoll.
Little mushroom homes,
small shutters and doors,
cobblestone paths seeking places to forge.
Tiny twig fences and wishing wells,
a spot where the ancients love to dwell,
Come, stop by, and sit a spell.
Dark nooks and deep crannies,
trolls hide where it's rainy,
under bridges, in marshlands and moors.
They live in old logs,
way down in the bogs,
their neighbors are spiders, toads and frogs!
Sing the song of shimmering wisp,
in the dewlight morning crisp.
The sun extends his warm embrace;
the forest awakens from his grace,
where dawn's faint light is on the cusp,
souls rekindled with life to lust.
Right as a sprite in the morning light,
The forest awakens with all it's might,
they toil and tarry,
oh, what a sight!
They'll hustle and bustle,
'til the evening night.
Like a troupe of fireflies,
in the evening they arise,
with wicked dance they mesmerize,
their woodland songs are naturized,
and much to my complete surprise
they begin to etherize!
The stars in the sky now outnumber,
wee little pixies who are encumbered,
from play of the day and hours of labour,
to their cotton beds they start to clamber;
their hearths die down to only embers
the Knoll now silent and deep in slumber.
Day or night, it's sure to delight,
to see a troll or a sprite;
you never know what you may find,
in this land of gold and grime;
So come with me for a stroll,
and visit the folk of pixie knoll.
poem by: Lori Platt
