The Glade of Galadriel

- jan-u-wine

3.




He has found me.

 
 
 
At last,
 
he
has,
 
the evil-tatter'd
ribbon
 
of dark mouthings
touching
 
my mind
with foul purpose.
 
I do not
understand
 
these words.
 
No matter:
the black
 
meaning of them
closes my throat,
 
as if dead fingers
held me fast.
 
I cannot look away,
cannot
 
stop
the words
 
which pull me to him.
 
In a moment,
he shall have me,
 
entire.
 
From outside myself,
there is light,
 
Like the wings of some
great Sea-bird of the West,
 
it is,
assailing with ancient purpose
our fearsome enemy.
 
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
Ghostly vapor
 
rises
yet upon the sudden-still air.
 
In the end,
I did
 
not
touch the water.
 
Nor he,
me.
 
The grace of light
still falls
 
about the lady.
 
Sweetly it flows
from her outstretched hand,
 
crowns with silver'd gold
the cloak of her hair.
 
Within my mind,
 
she, too,
speaks,
 
her words
as fearful
 
as those which
I have but late
 
escaped.
 
With dark truth
she speaks.
 
Oh, my Lady.
 
How shall I go on?