by Edgar Mason
I have borne witness To magic in the ferry terminals — Fairy terminals. Here your stories end. The man with long gray hair, The magus in the bomber coat Who carried nothing with him (A type, I would discover) Smiled at the character I was — Myself a type, A Clever Child with a little book — And I saw magic in the mysterious acronyms And the grubby plastic chairs turned into Fairy thrones. As many miles wide As there are letters in the alphabet. A cabal of boy-changelings, Changing money and tongues — Parlay vou onglay? Non, nous ne parlons pas la même langue. I stared in wonder At the lights of Calais. Across that land of battles I saw glimmering the chance of all my dreams Of damp gray stone And green grass And the quiet glint of other things, Just beyond the next corner — It was no rue But pleasure I found there. And still the fairy terminus Where the black-scarfed girls walk slowly Marks the end of every story As in twenty-six mile-wide letters Every story is told again.
Edgar Mason has lived in Pennsylvania, France, Kansas, and a few other places besides. She is currently pursuing a degree in Classical Languages, and blogs here. Her favorite fruit is the plum, because it is spicy and sensual and really can't be consumed without the juice running over the chin.
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