A Changing of Seasons

I love those first clear, cold mornings that signal the coming of autumn. They make me think of warm apple cider brewing on the stove and cosy evenings spent reading by the fire. I would have to say that I'm a cold weather person. I love watching as green fades to brilliant shades of gold and orange; not quite so much here on the west coast as out east, little bursts of colour against the green mountainsides.

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We said goodbye to the summer Faeries, the children and I left little offerings of berries and scraps of wool and silk all wrapped up in tiny parcels as parting gifts. We love to guess at where they go, do they hibernate away? Or perhaps they fly off to warmer shores... 

It's never quiet for long though, soon the nights are filled with the sounds of wild faerie dancing and merry making. The Harvest Faeries are known for their feasts, they are a jovial lot. Autumn brings the Gypsies too, we say they ride on the back of the north wind. Why they come with the cold I don't know... Perhaps we are kindred spirits. They are my favourite of all the faeries and their arrival fills our home with excitement and anticipation for their wailing songs and frantic gypsy dances that set the heart alight.

 This year there were new faces too. 

Siobhan, the harpist.

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I think my little boy is in love! Ever since he heard her playing on her harp he sits for hours near the woods at the back of our yard waiting to catch a glimpse of her. 

Then there is Leif, a wonderful sprightly fellow the likes of whom I've never heard on the fiddle before, it comes alive in his tiny hands.

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Aria is more elusive than the others. I've only seen her once but I can often hear the soft sound of her flute near the kitchen window.  Her music almost has a sad note to it, one that leaves you with a sense of yearning for places unknown and times past.

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And lastly, Alejandro. It's his guitar that sets the night alight with magic and mischief and sends any who dares to wander the woods in the moonlight spinning round in a wild faerie jig, the kind that inspires tales of faerie rings and nights that last a hundred years.

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