Under the bent roots of the hill
where damp earth smells of iron and rain,
a small green knuckle of a creature
counts his crooked treasure again.
Not gold from kings nor minted crowns—
no dragon’s hoard or pirate’s chest—
but buttons, thimbles, bent-up nails,
a pewter spoon he likes the best.
A goblin lives by nimble law:
take what rattles, shines, or rings;
trade a mushroom cap for gossip,
swap lost socks for copper things.
He listens close to passing boots,
to farmers grumbling down the lane,
to wagons creaking in the dusk
like tired bones before the rain.
If someone drops a silver coin
beside the ditch or stable wall,
the goblin’s hand—quick as a blink—
will make that silver vanish small.
But sometimes, when the moon is thin
and foxes bark beyond the rye,
he leaves a marble, bright and blue,
for barefoot children passing by.
For goblins know a careful balance
older than the plow and field:
take enough to fill your pockets,
leave enough the world will yield.
So if a button slips your coat
or keys go missing near the loam,
look near the roots of twisted oak—
the goblin’s counting them at home.