When the birds sing their goodnight song and the day has been so hot and long,

When the flowers turn their faces down

And the moss whispers along the woodland floor and the Faerie folk hear, peeping through the Oak tree door, a solitary figure in the dim light appears,

Tucked under his arm a couple of beers.

A pixie-like damsel follows and holds on to his arm.

These two shadows, the elementals can tell, mean no harm.

The sound of the woodsman is familiar to them,

 they blend into the bark and the leaves in the fir tree's hem.

Watching wide eyed as he picks up sticks, they play and dart, movements too quick,

 not seen by him but rather felt.

He rambles along and hums a song of the wood, the notes of all that has gone before,

 Then slowly opens the magic door.

The faint glow and tinkle of the Folk from below, start to sparkle and sprinkle their magic on him. “Woodsman, woodsman, you are our kin,

We protect you and love you and see you within,

You are a tree, as tall and as strong, you are the words to our faerie song.

Woodsman, woodsman, we have so much to say,

It’s when you're not looking, you’ll see us one day.”

With that he turns back toward whence he came, the work is done, never a day the same.

As he walks along the path in the dusk, a sprinkle, a tinkle of faerie dust,

“What was that?”,  they hear him say, “only us”they laugh, “the people of fae.”