ROSIE-QUEEN OF THE FAERIES

Walking in moon-lite,with grate beauty, like what I have got, is akin two a would-land sprite gambling in moon-dappled shady nooks and crannies. Ah, the magic of moon-lite, everyday, mundane things take on a magical, aspect. That old rusty po in the hedgerow, could be a shinning helmet worn by a night of old. The cow pat in the middle of the shadowy lane, could be a crock of gold. I was on my way two keep a tryst with my boyfriend Chuck Corona at our secret rondy-view, under the big oak tree that was stood standing adjacent two Murphy's pig sheds. I felt-eyes upon my person, the eyes of the nite. With a silent WHOOSH, a hunting, tawny howl flew over my head, eyes peeled for scurring rodents. The shrill shrieks of ferrets in the ditches, the piercing eyes of the hobgoblin, a frightened hare taking two its heels, the open-eyed stare of a wee fairy, perched suggestively on a toadstool. Ah, the wee half-naked fairy, so beloved by Hans Kristian Anderson, but anathema two the boys in the Vatican. The boys in the Vatican do knot understand the realms of the fairy world. We live side-by-side with the fairy folk, and yet-never meet, except when the fairys exchange a wild looking fairy child for a good looking human sprog.I have know fear of the nite. I love the beauty of the nite. Ask anyone in Clougher, or surrounding districts, and they will tell you, that there is something of the nite in Rosie Ryan. I look up at the full, round hyptnising moon and feel strange, unnatural urges. Oh two throw off the clothes of humanity and run, with arms out-stretched shrieking like a banshee, my red hare standing up on me like a Gorgan and the red glow of mid-nite madness in my maidenly, girlish staring occulars. Two feel the cool, fresh wind in my hare, FREE, Free from the restricion of clinging drawers and simmet. Two skip-gaily round the fairy mound, my maidenly bust unfettered. Too dance, dance, dance, caring not a fig for the prick of the hawthorn in my leaping, skipping, plump, demure derriere. Oh two entertain elves, frolic with fairies and hob-nob with hobgoblins. JUst want to dance the night away with leap-rah-con, faerie and would-land sprite. Ah, the moon, the moon, I must invert my human eyes, before the moon invades my brane and I divest my clothing and skip-nude as a plum through the enchanted forest.
My hart gave a skip, like Michael flattery when I saw my sole mate waiting by the old oak tree. There he stood in the moon-lite, standing squat, round and strong as a brick shi.. outhouse. My trembling lips tried two utter his name, all that came out was, Chu-Chu-Chu. I sped down the forest path two be by his side. My hobnailed boots causing a scurry in the fallen Autumnal leaves, like the Dukes of Hazard's big orange kar. When I was fully six feet away from the love of my life, I literally-threw myself into the air, like an acrobat and hit Chuck with all the velocity of a fragile, demure, maidenly woman in love. Chuch went down and I fell on top of him. We rolled in the Autumnal bracken like too wart hogs, I could feel the mouth organ in Chuck's trouser pocket. I coo'ed like a dove and kissed the gub of my wandering ministeral. When passion ebbed and love was saturated, we sat on the wet grass at the trunk of the oak tree, holding hands, staring into each others eyes and talking lovey-dovey. I looked at Chuck, the moon-lite cast deep, dark shadows on the craters of his rugged, pox-marked face. Chuck looked like a Satyr, the Greek God of the woodlands, part goat and part man. I snuggled close too my Pan God, like a vessal virgin and whispered. "Chuck, my love, how much do you love me?" Chuck reached for a fallen leaf, withered like parchment, nibbled at it with his large, uneven nashers and replied. "Ah, Rosie Ryan, Ah Chush-La-Ma-Cree, I love you more than the foam on a pint of Guiness, more that a good chaw of tobacco and more than the greatest donkey, that ever drew turf from the bog". "What an elequent declaration of love" I shrieked, "Utterally henchanting and Shakespeareian in the extreme" The magical nite seemed two go on for ever, and we just lay there, Hansel and Gertie, holding each other close. We were together--together, except for the times we had too slip away for a slash behind the beech three. As the first lite of morn appeared in the Eastern sky, Chuck broke wind with a plaintive drone. The stark, brite lite of the son lit up the harsh, cruel world of-reality. Our nite of magical enchantment was over. I got wearily two my feet, cleaned dog skitter from my hobnailed boots with a stick and returned too my mundane world, where the wind blows cold, dreams are shattered and the price of drawers and pan loaves is going threw the roof.
Ah Lamore, Give me moon-lite, where Rosie Ryan, pentagon of virtue, turns into Maeve-THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Reed my letters too Gerry Anderson in a book by this boy...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And go now to...
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
If any of youse out there is effected by the moon, like what I am, don't worry, it just means there's a bit of the fairy in you. And keep away from doctor's and mental hospitals, my daddy dyed in wan of them auld plaices. Yours, with grate affliction, Rosie Ryan. XXX