One of my favourite childhood books is “Peter William Butterblow and Other Little Folk” by C. J. Moore. I have written many poems reminiscent of its verses. This is one that I found while sorting through old notebooks which I feel speaks to that same sense of wonder which this work of C. J. Moore, Marianne Gariff, Alfred Baur, and Hedwig Diestel still instils in me today.

The Night Elf.

Why does the night elf slip between rails

and dust chandeliers without mops, rags, or pails?

Why does he sweep and mop the floors,

and whistle and hum while he completes his chores?

All for a little saucer of milk,

or he’s out through the door,

padding away on slippers of silk.