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Deep in a silva of the Emerald Isle there hides a peculiar coppice,
Shaped in a spiral labyrinth which is seen only on the summer solstice. 

As the sun rises to its highest of tides and the day overwhelms the night,
Those with fairy sight can find this forest where magic is entangled in setting light. 

Inside the twists and turns of the path which winds throughout the wooded thick,
There sits a bench at the center of this maze which was mapped with archaic arithmetic.

Locals call this legendary seat the Bench of Brohan's Boskage,
Named for a fairy who built and grew the bosk as a family homage.

The bench was built with metal and wood made of brass and burdock root,
Blended in an elderberry and copper snood of alloys and the flora's fruit.
 
The root of Thor and the berry of elders ensure that those who sit can stand,
The staccato of lightning that perpetually pours upon the enchanted bench's land. 

For above the labyrinthian garden an unending mystical tempest warns,
Those without the fairy sight who seem to fear the wrath of thunderstorms.

Once a fearless boy who hadn't knew that his blood was brewed in the Brohan clan,
Took a trip on the twenty-first of June and found the forest after he grew into a man.

He took a walk in the night as the sun was still high when he had heard a whisper,
Willing him to follow a blow of a feathery zephyr in the air which had never been crisper.

Although lost he knew the way for the forest's nymphs ferried him on,
Towards the middle of the woods where to the bench he would be drawn.

Lightning bolts webbed above the weaving walls of shrubs,
Whose leaves were rubbed by the static clouds' electric scrub.

An astronomer, the man could sense the occult horoscopy used to map the mazes,
Whose constellated crevices were crafted by extraterrestrial objects and their phases. 

Meandering through the astrological charted garden, east of Aires and Aquarius,
He found the bench which sat in the galactic center, twenty-six degrees of Sagittarius.

The seat, which was half stone and half plant, shined beneath ionized sky,
A copper conductor untouched by the lightning which the elderberry nullified. 

He sat upon the bench and gazed upon a damiana and why he had not known,
He closed his eyes and knew this breathing bench of stone was his own throne.

Memories of ancient celtic kings and queens who reigned in pagan days,
Flashed in slideshow reels inside his racing mind as if he were watching a play.

He learned that the fey could once be seen and that his exponentially great grandfather,
Was a king who laid with a fairy maid before the Church had all the pagans slaughtered.

A war of righteous wickedness had driven the fairies who fled for the hills,
Who can be heard in screams when one of their human kin is to be killed.

After the man watched this history in a celluloid dream filmed in his thoughts,
He sat up from the bench and all he just learned had been immediately forgot. 

He looked down at the bench then up at the sky and for some reason he felt scared,
In haste he exited the woods and wondered why when he entered he had ever dared.

When he returned to the bed and breakfast in which he was staying,
He reached in his pocket for a cigarette,
And found a small note which in written letters addressed to him was saying,
"Now, my grandson, you must never forget."
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