Late summer sun has burned
the hills brown
and dust grey.
And we wait with anticipation.
For before the orange ball of Harvest rises
it is the magic time of the Hunter's Moon.
It arrives to neither summer nor fall.
It is the illusions season
and Elizabeth's Renaissance Faire.
With eagerness sharpened by a summers wait
and a child's keen senses
we are off to Black Point fields.
There we will live
for a while an alternative life.
The long walk from the parking
provides a view of the hidden shire.
We will pass though the gate
and past the armory.
The clash of ancient arms accompany
an timeless art form.
400 years old smells are in the air
already filled
with sounds of yesterday.
The washer women
at the well provide a soap opera
with an Old English accent.
Costumed players
and a child's cross armed pout
form a multi-generational juxtaposition.
Kilted Scots in a high flying swing,
provide a timeless nagging answer.
Gold, silver, feathers, tin,
leather, wood and glass,
wine and ale have been crafted
for the awed invaders of this
Brigadoon.
Humanity has changed little
in 400 years.
It is the same sun and moon.
The food is faintly familiar
and the wine well aged.
At this faire you can look
in a tin framed
mirror and see
long halls decorated
with portraits of your ancestors.
You will recognize yourself
and know that better or worse
through all time
we have enjoyed a faire.