Heir to the Dreamer
It cannot be nine years they are gone.
It cannot be the lad grows,
grows no better.
It was Yule
when last I chanced
to see him,
and the great Hall filled
with warmth and light...
and couples a-courting
in sweet-shadowed corners.
Bright brown brew,
and fresh-pressed cider,
from cook's vast black kettle,
wended pleasant down many
I had sampled more than a pint
of honey-tipped ale
when I spied him.
If laugher were a Sea,
it were a Sea broken
by the silence of that shore.
I could not help but see
the quiet of my cousin's eyes,
mirrored in his own,
nor the grace
that bespoke the 'faerie wife'
in that odd-slender form.
It was that night I gave him his father's pipe.
From the hollowed tusk of a mighty
bound in Elven-flowered silver
And the lad took it,
and became more quiet, still.
A nail-bitten thumb
followed the curve of the stem,
touched the bowl as if to tamp down
what was there only in imagination.
He turned from me then,
looked past diamond windows,
blazened with warmth and light,
to that which lay beyond.
Silenced by winter's breath, it was,
grey and stone-still,
This will not do.
No, this assuredly will not do.
He will not know another winter here,
I promise myself,
he will not know another season of despair.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beyond the window of my study,
old Hamfast and his youngest,
(too small as yet to work the garden,
but not to be denied)
turn soil beneath the cloud-milked Sun.
The boy's feet carry him, in their excitement,
to my door.
A small hand enfolds two grey spheres,
round as marbles,
delicate-veined and shining against dirt-smeared fist.
He is not so old yet as to know what these might be,
but his eyes, green as old-willow bark,
round with wonder
as the creatures unfold upon his palm.
And the other.
They have decided me.
In the fall of this year,
when the harvest is called home
(and before ever the river falls to chill'd sleep)
I shall call Home a harvest of a different sort….
a harvest of youth-awkward limbs and lonely heart,
a harvest of sea-dreams and eyes bemused by stars….
He shall be my heir,
this Elf-strange lad who shares the day of my birth.
And I will teach him what he must needs know:
which crop is sown in spring,
and which must wait for summer's heat…
what river feeds which farmer's land….
the proper tang of proper leaf…..
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~
The gold nib of my pen meets parchment,
twines words of salutation to those of invitation.
He will come, I know it.
He will come,
and live beneath the green of the Hill,
and dream of the moon-silvered Sea
in the room that was his father's.
He will come.
I have decided.