- jan-u-wine



Home, now,


lies almost
upon the brow
of the sky....


with the same light
that shone from Dwarven doors....


This is my home,
outside of all time,

outside the Circle which was the World.

Sea-voices whisper soft within my sleep,
{grey-sheeted rain falling softer still}
ghosts of cloud-shadows
and straying starlight
upon the wall.



Like a gull,
swift and silent
between the pull of Sea and Sun,
I journey back,

to the round green of the door,
the tender swirl of vine upon window's curve,

the fire
whispering to itself in the mouth of the grate.... 


Threads of clean, warm gold

beneath my eyelids,
spread into dremes:

the moon -


like welcoming,
half-seen candles..... 

the spring-sweet mint of green thyme
hidden in the brake,
crushed to new sharpness by my passing...

ever the keeper of memory,
soothing the fragrant leaves from the soil, 

smile lines touching river-green eyes
as he enquires

what I will do with the thyme given me)

Dear Sam.  
Even my dreme echoes with shared laughter,

within the Lonely Isle
we shall not be parted.





Halimath 1421,

the fields gold and orange,
burning, almost,
beneath a fleeting Sun....

faerie-harp webs
binding with diamond strings
the white roses
blooming late upon the wall....

a swift's thin piping rising
from a hidden burrow....

Seldom, now, does the Road
call me,

seldom do I rise to seek
the cool damp of soft dust
between my toes....

but today....


the promise of Winter
(like a mere thought)
Autumn's warmth,

puts me in mind of long-forgotten paths....

The trees here:

silent and forbidding
in their sleep,

knees hidden deep in wild growth.

Almost I imagine they could be
the First Trees.....

and smile at the thought of them
speaking and sighing

under the light of the Netted Stars....

It is night eternal beneath their twined branches,
filtered dark

like morning-mist from black earth.

A russet-jacketed fox,
silver-eyed and wary,
stands before me.

at last,

he may know what two hobbits
were about in his woods.....
And the tale unravels from me,
words falling to the ground
between us,

his head sidewise in that strange
way that fox have.......

When I have done,
he is gone,

only the sway'd grasses beneath the tree
to mark his passage...

Something glitters darkly there,

where tree-toes lie secret and warm
beneath fallen leaves....

I feel


I feel

pinned to this moment,
this fear and desire

to touch what stays hidden there.

A great cold-metal'd helm,
beaked nose-guard
dull with time,
with abandoned use,
lies chill within my hands.

I feel the slow deliberation
of my heart
beating within my throat,

in memory, 
those last steps,

ash and fire
burning my throat,

the harsh-sweet
voice in my ear,
my mind,

calling me,
promising me,

caressing me.....

My thoughts whirl away,
like leaves caught in
a nighted pool......

and come to rest in a rush-lit room.

I know this room,

know with certainty the soft-strong arms
that hold me,

the eyes that look into my un-seeing ones,
the gentle fingers that number fingers and toes.

{and in my dreme, I hide my hand within the clasp of
its mate, so that she might not see what has become of
her son.....)

And in my dreme,
{and in the waking}
 stars fading to rose-dawn
 and the Sea blue-green and silent

so far below,
I recall
(though time and remembrance of
time has little meaning here),  

what day it might be.

And between the dreme and the waking,
I hold fast to Mumma's hand,

as I did as a child

and her soft kiss
blesses my brow,
as ever it did then.



the day is filled by gentle music
and the white-capped blue rush of the Sea….


a lavender evenfall,
Uncle spinning tales
in the fast-fading light.

Earendil sails upon the velvet of the sky
as his voice fades to silence.

I think

it is my best birthday,
It is all I ask.

It is enyalie.

It is Home.