Misled by Piskies

How sore my legs - but brings this fire much cheer;

come gather round, I'm pleased in meeting you -

Billy Puck am I, and hail from near -

droll teller, balladeer, and singer too.

But pays it not - I tell my tales instead

in hopes of earning here a meal and bed.

Old Cornwall then the setting is - a place

where many a forgotten myth has grown

of crashing giant, of furtive fairy race,

of singing mermaid, of ancient standing stone.

But now I turn to moorlands for this one,

where walked a farmer home once - on and on:

Tom Mawker was he called - a local fellow,

who lived upon a farm on Fowey Moor.

Fond of simple things, his nature mellow,

filled were his days with toil and little more.

His humdrum life, with Elowen his wife,

was rarely free from drudgery and strife.

The upland there is rugged and remote,

with scattered granite circles, cairns and rows.

The only sounds the bleating sheep or goat -

the bleak wind or the brook the gently flows.

Now once walked Tom his usual homeward way,

late from the market where he'd spent that day.

The narrow road he took was solitary,

and clothed in golden leaves. He heard the trill

of feathered creatures - as, unhurriedly,

he wandered through a forest. All was still -

as twilight filled the air. It was November,

and glad he was his coat he did remember.

He felt he had been walking for some while,

and wondered if he'd taken a wrong turn.

He noticed too he hadn't reached the stile

he climbed each time. He could not quite discern

his path - not unfamiliar did it seem -

and had no light except the moon's faint gleam.

With brisker pace he went - and with relief

he found a spot he knew. He tried and tried

each path from there - and yet - in disbelief -

they all led back to this same place. He sighed,

as late and lost he was. He heard - he thought -

laughter - and sight of fleeting shadows caught.

Still anxious to get home he carried on -

but went in circles still. At last he sat -

with head in hands - his will was slowly gone.

A figure he glimpsed - tiny - smart - red hat -

green coat - he looked - it vanished round a tree -

but on its bark this writing he could see:

Look near - I am about,

to ease the cold and rain;

now turn me inside out

and find your way again.

'I ease the cold and rain - what's this?' - he mused.

'A fire perhaps? A fire would ease the cold -

but not the rain. Look near?'. Tom did - confused.

'A shelter then?'. But he was not consoled.

He saw no shelter though he looked about -

and wondered how you'd turn one inside out.

Puzzled - once more he sat - sunk in despair

that this predicament would never end.

He wrapped his coat around him - the air

cooled - rain fell - then - then did he comprehend.

'What's near, and eases cold and rain? A coat.

Can be turned inside out as well? A coat.'

Tom turned it inside out - he felt quite silly,

but saw no other hope. He walked again -

and progress made this time - mysteriously

he now found paths he recognized. The rain

soon stopped - he saw at last his farm that night -

and never felt so happy at the sight.

His strange adventure to his wife he told;

not disbelieving was she. 'Piskies are they',

said Elowen to Tom, 'from time of old.' -

and Tom was Piskie-led - as some still say.

It's harmless mischief - but - so they don't scheme -

and bring good luck - leave out for them some cream.