Poetry by PS Cottier
The Long Space between Spells
If we hadn’t adopted the changeling process,
we’d never have left Earth, or rather,
not gone beyond our own neighbourhood
of the Moon and Mars and such.
But the fairies are happy, even eager to see us
pack our bags and go. Happy to change us
back to infants for the voyage’s epic length,
cradled and rocked in the ship’s sweet pods.
They return to fairy mounds and spells,
and we voyage out beyond stars,
sucking dreams, sure that we will return
to adult form just before our destination.
We trust that the fairies will wake us.
Strange that books of ancient tales are banned
during the rigorous training before the spells.
Anyone would think there was danger
in the half-seen swish of the fey,
and that their smiles are of scorn
as we lie down, close our eyes,
and take them at their magic words.