PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There was just enough of the woman's mind left to recognize that the crying was that of a human in distress. She scooped the shivering baby out of the muck, cradled it close to her breast and continued on her walk home in the evening mist. She did not notice the crash so recent that the wreckage was still smoking nor did she see the man lying on the riverbank, one foot in the water as if maybe he had still been alive when he was thrown from the vehicle, a hand reaching out to grasp the muddied blue blanket just inches away out of his reach.

Magritte could find no one to help as her sister lay feverish for the third day. The villagers were hard and showed little sympathy for one another. She was worried about the old lady that lived out by the mill, banished for being too eccentric. The truth was Gerta was demented and Magritte was the only one who bothered to look after her. At the very least she walked out every other day to make sure the woman had food and firewood. Gerta's mind was going fast of late and sometimes she didn't eat or make a fire to keep herself warm. It would be Winter soon and she would need to try to get there everyday but Magritte herself was getting on in years and looking after both Gerta and her sister was a bit much. She'd tried to convince Gerta to come live with her but the woman had no idea who she was and often acted hostile instead of welcoming. When finally her sister had recovered enough that she felt comfortable leaving her alone Magritte set out to the woman's cottage. There she found Gerta in high spirits sitting in her rocking chair with a cooing infant in her arms.

"Wherever did that baby come from?"

"The faeries left him by the side of the road for me."

Magritte puzzled over what to do about this strange turn of events. Should she take the baby from the old woman? Surely she wouldn't be able care for it, though both seemed content with each other and Gerta had even shown the wherewithall to make a fire and warm some milk for the baby. But where had the child really come from?

The woman stroked the babe on the cheek, "I've named him Pixie."

Magritte decided to hold off wrenching the child away and would be conscientious to check on them everyday from now on until she resolved what was to be done. When she arrived the following morning she opened the door to find Gerta face down on the floor and the baby wailing next to the woman who had saved his life.