Albert roams the land
Where trees will stand
On guard at night.
He's rarely seen by day
And people say
He hates the light.

His eyes are made of ice
With herbs and spice
And specks of gold.
And there's a bluish tint
To his eyes' glint,
Or so I'm told.

His speech is double-Dutch
When women touch
His famous hair.
His hair is two-foot tall.
He calls it Paul.
It tends to scare

Children when it growls
Or hoots like owls.
It doesn't bite.
Beneath a milky moon
In May or June
It flies a kite.

You'll see him late at night
When stars are bright,
Where foxes roam.
He makes the foxes hide.
He seems to glide.
The land's his home.

He's very tall and thin.
His pointy chin
Is like his nose.
His nose makes sounds like 'om'
That form a poem.
It can't do prose.

His ears will move around
To find a sound.
They need to hear.
His ever-present grin
Is pencilled in
From ear to ear.

The fluter known as Phil
Plays Spancill Hill
Beneath the moon,
Beside a gentle stream
While people dream
Of boom and boon.

They rarely dream of bust
Till bricks of dust
Are blown away.
While Albert roams the land
He'll stop and stand
And softly sway.

He'll hear the sound by chance.
It makes him dance.
He moves with ease.
His shadows run away
And there they stay.
They hide in trees.

When birds emerge from mud
With specks of blood
He's waiting there,
To catch them as they try
Their best to fly
And breathe the air.

When I was in a boat
I prayed would float
One Autumn night.
The river carried me
So I could see
This splendid sight:

Albert in the river.
He didn't shiver,
Despite the cold.
At first I had the thought
That Albert sought
To find some gold,

But he was catching fish
To fill a dish
And spread on scones.
He caught the fish by hand.
I've seen him stand
As still as stones.

As I was floating past
He moved as fast
As any stoat.
He put an old cloth bag,
A tattered rag,
Into my boat.

When I got home that night,
In candle light
I looked inside.
I found a silver trout,
Not fat but stout,
And this I fried.

I also found some jam,
A joint of ham
That tasted fine,
And honey from the bees,
Some cake and cheese
And well-aged wine.

The meal brought such delight
I had to fight
An urge to sing.
Its perfect taste and charm
Concealed the harm
That it would bring.

I've nearly lost my mind.
I've tried to find
The food again.
For months I've spent each night
In faintest light.
I've sought that grin.

I'm yet to see a trace
Of Albert's face.
He must be found.
I'll search behind the bales
On hills and vales
For miles around.