My mother told me when I was small
That thieves and trolls lived
Under the house, and helped me
Listen to them hammering away
At broadest noon on pieces of iron
And silver. “Stay upstairs and
Nothing will hurt you,” she said.
I did. And nothing did.
When I was older but still young,
She said an ancient salamander
Folk lived in the depths of old
Wells, waiting for such innocents as
Me to come and look down—which,
She said, was always fatal because
They needed help in running errands
And in keeping their houses clean.
Being a fastidious boy, I understood
Their necessity. “Stay away from deep-
Down water,” my mother said, “and
Nothing will happen.”
I did. And nothing did.
When I was hardly a man, she said
Birds of fire nested in the tops
Of ice-trees in our ordinary woods
And sang songs so sweet wanderers
Were caught in nets of music and lost
All ways of returning home. “If you
By chance should happen there, stop
Your ears and run,” she said,
“And nothing will befall you.”
I did. And nothing did.
Today, she has gone berry-picking
Among the purple hills where are,
She says, things young men should
Never rush to see: gnomes, djinns,
And merry urchins who look for such
Innocents as me, with painted hands
Shading their evil eyes. She will
Be back soon with succulent fruit
For us to have for supper.
Meanwhile, I stand staring down
The road that leads to far country.
I’m still ungrown, still obedient,
And wait for her to come home, laden
With luscious blackberries. Yet
When I run to welcome her, how shall
It be that I will not shade my eyes
To meet those shaded eyes that seek
Me there in the purple glens
I am not yet allowed to enter?
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