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Inklings

The Last Turn of the Road by jan-u-wine

The great
warm-green
expanse
of the river
runs beside me,
arms narrowing
to silent pools
of sunlight,
shadows curled
like close-petalled
flowers
along the moss of the shore....

chill hand of fall
crisps the air,
tapping fingers
of persistant cold
beneath
the comfort of my cloak.

Tangled trees,
fragile willow
holding to slender beech,
portal the path,
twining
darkness to light.

Tiny-eyed flowers,
caught about
by the sharp-bladed green
of crystal-strewn grass,
wink in startlement.

Hesitant, low-throated,
a thrush,
hidden, sleep-dulled,
sings....

a white-crowned kite
answers,
eyes fierce with
searching,
turning upon every shift of wind.....

And....

this simple road,
ribboning
the hill
with deepest brown,
leaves drifted
from age-gone Falls
pillowed upon its dust-strewn face.

Its wakening warmth smells
like tea....

and clover'd honey....

and things grown
with care
beneath the sun.

It smells like
Home.

Just over the horizon,
already grey-red
with misted-opal
dawn,
it lies,

still sleeping,

dreaming......

safe

inside the circle
of the World.

My breath halts.

Home:
tiny eyes
of hearth-fires
fret in the roundness
of windows
open to harvest winds:

Home:

smoke curls
welcoming fingers
from chimneys
close-hidden
within the Hill.....

Home:

imagined laughter
pours like ale,
golden,
sunlit,
through the door
of the Dragon.

Home.

I bend my knees
until they touch
the dark
face of the road.

Time spills with
endless ease
into my lightening mind.

My fingers
hold to the sweet richness
of the earth,
my hand
lets the slow pull
of the stream
draw upon it.

It looks whole
and yet
fractured,
turning
in the shadow-dapple
of the familiar cold.

There is a sudden
presence
at my side.

Bemused eyes,
as warm with earth-wisdom
as the wide river himself,
take my measure.

Silently,
sturdy legs
bend
to the ground
next to mine.

It is not shame
that compels
me
to bow my head
beneath the eye
of the Sun.

No.

Rather,
a quickening joy,
running through me like
song,
like the music of the
Sea....

like the voices of the streams
that whispered to the silver-clad
stones
in the dawn of the First Morning.

Joy and

thankfulness

that, in the very
largeness
of the world,

I am granted

beyond all thought,
beyond all reason,

beyond all hope

to see this dawn.

Unlike that other dawn,
within whose dark arms
I lay and wished for death,

unlike those final moments
when you carried
my body
and all else that I am,

we rise,
together
from the glad
dust of the road.

Like unto that other dawn,
your hand clasps mine,

like unto those final moments,
we share
the last few steps
of our journey.

The Sun
rides
fiery
in the East,

grey fog
fleeing
before Her.

The same Sun
that washes
the waiting
fields with gold
lays a path
of gentle light
before me.

I smile
and set my foot
to the last
turn
of my Road.