Halimath 1389 S.R.

- jan-u-wine

Halimath 1389 S.R.

There is not much left now
in the small space that was my room.

The round back of a scarred trunk
stands open,
shadow lengthening along the floor.

All of my life…

all of my life
thus far,
lies within.

Great silver-spined books,
covers dark with age,
over-laid in spider-webbed runes,
rest within the safety of my best
blue-bordered weskit.

(Aunty says it is the exact shade
of the unending Sea).

All is in order.

The narrow bed is made,
my old yellow blanket
lying like a spill of late sunshine
across the white of the pillow.

A small breath of wind
bothers the curtain,
finds its way through the window,
touches my face with chill fingers.

The worn wood of the floor,
burnished earth-rich-brown,
warms my feet.

The Brandywine,
green-grey face sparking in the sun,
beyond the arms of the trees.

This is where late I played,
clambered and hid,

and laughed

in summers and springs,
winters and falls.

This is where my old life


What will it be like,
I wonder, seeing the roof,
rough blue-dark tile
bounded by green-forest thatch,

what will it be like,
to live beneath a hill….



beneath earth's gentled curve?

How cold the room is of a sudden.

My hand does not tremble
as I lock the trunk lid,

nor do I cry when Merry
will not let me go
as we say farewell.

Dear Merry.

He stands in the window of my room
and waves
as we ride away.

For hours,
upon the road,
I see his hand,
small as a child's,

lost and lonely,
upraised to gathering

He is yet just a child.

Aunty will care for him now.

And I….

I shall have adventures.

In the wide fields of the World,
in the grey rock of far-away mountains,

in the crystal rush of little streams,
they await me.

They shine and tumble,
spilling with ribbon-bright light
and promise  
through my mind.

And in the midst of my waking dream,
centered and caught within wonder,

I yet see
Merry's outstretched hand.

And I wonder if I shall ever find my Home.