A cornish wind blows in salty and cold. Winter is lurking in the sky and her clouds. As the dawn light filters through to the flora below, to the plants that grow ever slower, the pixies come out to play. Amongst the fallen petals their soft feet beat a steady rhythm, their faces alight with glee. This moorland of rugged grass is their home, their castle, and every night is one of frivolity. As a drum beat starts, a frisson of excitement passes from pixie to pixie, and the movements of their fragile limbs becomes quite unrestrained. Their voices pour out to bid farewell to lady night and greet her sister that comes to warm them. The nascent sunbeams sparkle on their wings, which shimmer every bit as much as the nearby sea.
The folklore of the pixies told of the time mother earth would com
