2: I Begin to Sing of Earendil
Silence echoes back against my ear.
I look about one last time.
Odd, the small things I will notice:
the grey coldness
of the ash
lying within the lonely hearth;
an old cloak,
faded green to grey
upon its hook;
droop-headed in the yellow-watered vase.
My fingers trace the brass-bound beauty of the door:
the key falls from my hand,
and lies just there
upon the floor.
My heart beats slow in my throat.
I cannot pick it up.
I cannot go.
I stand in the twilight of the Row.
Somewhere, a sleepy, sweet-voiced bird bids the day
against the rose-velvet, faded blue of the sky.
My hand touches,
the gate's familiar
I begin to sing
as I walk
down the Hill.