When I was a tad I was faerie-mad! I “saw” them everywhere. Everything in the garden, the field and the woods was a faerie house. When the breeze made the leaves flutter, it was faerie wings. Faerie-mad! Much to Mum and Dad’s chagrin, Nana not only humoured me, but encouraged my already wild imagination where faeries were concerned. One night at bedtime she told me an English folklore tale about faeries and irises and ever since, irises have been one of my favourite flowers.
In traditional lore and Victorian faerie tales, the iris is known as the “faerie Cradle.” Because of how the iris blossom is shaped, the three upright petals (the standards) form a perfect, private, dome and the falls (lower petals) make the velvety-soft, mattress. In folktales, flower faeries use the inside of the iris’ flower as a secret canopy bed to sleep safely during rainstorms.
But for me, the faerie tale pièce de résistance, was “The Magic Tutus”. Iris blossoms look uncannily like wee ballerinas spinning in a waltz. English folklore has it that, if you look at a patch of irises out of the corner of your eye at sunset, you’re not looking at flowers. You’re actually catching a glimpse of a faerie ballet troupe! Gosh, it was wonderful growing up with such an indulgent Nana!
Fun Fact: Iris is the Greek Goddess of the rainbow. The rainbow is called a bridge because it connects two completely different worlds.
A slender stem of quiet grace,
The wild blue flag lifts up its face,
Poised en pointe for early spring,
Where marshland birds turn round to wing.
Then lo and behold, a splash of sun!
A bright and gold-and-crimson one,
With velvet skirts that softly flare,
Like tutus spinning in the air.
The grander queens wear gowns of lace,
In lavender and lilac space,
They raise their arms to meet the light,
And pirouette in purple bright.
A rainbow bridge, so rich and grand,
The finest dancers in the land.
’Til next time, y’all…
The Faerie Ballet Troupe
A slender stem of quiet grace,
The wild blue flag lifts up its face,
Poised en pointe for early spring,
Where marshland birds turn round to wing.
Then lo and behold, a splash of sun!
A bright and gold-and-crimson one,
With velvet skirts that softly flare,
Like tutus spinning in the air.
The grander queens wear gowns of lace,
In lavender and lilac space,
They raise their arms to meet the light,
And pirouette in purple bright.
They waltz upon the gentle breeze,
Beneath the shelter of the trees,
A faerie troupe, so rich and grand,
The finest dancers in the land.
A rainbow bridge, so rich and grand,
The finest dancers in the land.
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