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Inklings

Across So Wide A Sea by jan-u-wine

(it is said
that the last of the
Ringbearers
passed the gate
of the Sea,
sailing away
into the West)

* * * * * * * *

It is different,
here.

Time
has not
the same
flow....

yet

I cannot
remember
how else
her tide
might feel.

The very sunlight
fills me
with calm,
the grey storm
of the Sea
touches my mind
with dreams of peace.

The great wheel
of minutes,
hours,
days,

drifts....

a smooth,
veinless
leaf
suspended in
the crystalline river
of my life.
* * * * * * * *

A ship
rides
in the haven of the harbor,
white sail luffing
in down-turned wind.

Grey,
swan-prow’d,
she shimmers there,
like a pearl
laid upon
the brow of the Sea.

I smile.

A familiar shape
stands
sentinel
by the rail,
a roughened hand,
nervous as a
rider
upon an errant pony,
grasping
a silver length
of Elven rope.

Sam.

I have
so much
to tell him....

so much...

and yet,
nothing....

nothing
at all.
* * * *

The rounded green
of the door
stands open
to the soft cries of mourning doves,
their lament
entwined in the faint
salt
of the Sea.

He is waiting.

I pass
through
the riot of
my careless
garden,
brushing
fingers
through the soft tangle
of amaryllis
where Bilbo lies....

Odd....the lilies bloom there
as well....
their speckled gowns
lie
upon the sugared-pink-and-green curve
of earth.

My mind
fills
with thoughts
of him

and

Sam.

He will miss
seeing
again
the lad
who so painstakingly
learned his letters
so long
an age
ago.

He will miss
speaking
slow Elvish
and hearing
a shy,
stumbling
reply.
* * * * *

Soft sighs of
waves
hush
against sea-wormed
wood....

he stands quite
still
upon the gentle
shift of grey dock.

His eyes
are still
like sun-flecked leaves....

his hand
still
sturdily,
warmly
brown
as it clasps mine.
* * * * * *

There are
many words
as we climb
from Harbor
to
Hill.

He tells me
of the King....

my Lady Arwen....

little Pip....

and Merry.

Rosie and Elanorelle....

Even here,
there are tears...

even here,
I still taste regret.

We linger
among the trees....

bemusedly,
I see that he is naming them
in his mind.

his hand
touches
each,
gently,
as if they were
his child.

for a moment,
I am far away,
in pine-scented
woods
that I shall never see again....

his hands
with knowing calm,
fall upon my shoulder...

his eyes hold mine
with
steadying wisdom.
* * * * * * *

The three Ringbearers:

Here,
in this
darkening garden,
a world and more
away from Home,
we meet again.

gentl’d
afternoon
settles to
lavender dusk....

Already,
we are silent.

Trailings
of the vine
that Sam
names
thatra untibah*
weave their
golden embroidery
about
our feet.

Smoke rings
of insignificant
magnificence
rise
like unspoken
words
into leaven’d dark.

Sam
has never been one
to insist
on having
a final word.

Sam,
like much else
that I have known,
has changed.

“Well,”
says he,
bright
tears
shadowing
the gentle
sadness
of his eyes,
“I’m back.”

 

 

 

*from Old English: “there and back”