Saturday, 4 January 2014
The raging falls of Rivendell
Could not disguise from him,
The greatest of listeners,
The kindest of carers,
The sternest of the stern ones.
That there was a broken, foreign heart
Hidden in the deep.
Smaller than the heart of his beloved Arwen,
More broken than the sword of Elendil,
Its sadness, shooting its arrows
Through his hardened, ancient skin.
Lifting his head,
He heard it in the wind
Whispering through the weeping wheat
And in the sun dappled rainbow droplets
Spinning joyfully in the water riven air.
They spoke to him,
They guided him to it.
And he knew
Unlike those other humans
The fair weather walkers
Those jumpers, base and reckless
Wasting their lives, dashed
On his towering walls.
He knew that she,
For it was a she,
Her roots lay deep within his own.
She would see him.
He knew that he could help her.
Fetal he found her,
Curled within the maternal roots
Of a blessed birch.
He touched her eyes
With Elven kisses
And saw the terror,
The grief within her soul.
He took her hand in his.
Her body shuddered with a sudden sob
And she clung to him,
Feeling the holes in her heart
Healing with his unconditional love.
But her tears still ran
Like angel trails
Through a fairy copse.
For the Imaginary garden with real toads prompt "fantasy". We had a choice of three inspirational writers, Tolkien, A A Milne, or Lewis Caroll. As I live in the valley that quite possibly inspired Rivendell, there was a clear choice for me. Tolkien, I thank you.