They All Imagine

- jan-u-wine
They all imagine,
somehow,

hope,
somehow,

that I do not remember.

I remember.

Even here,

held between the Song of the Sea
and the velvet pull of the stars,

even

*thus*,

I remember.


And I cannot truly say

how

it is thus,

here, where Ages might pass
like moments

and moments
run like amber-honey
to Ages.

I know not
if a year has flown,

or ten,

or a thousand.

I only know I wake
betimes,

still'd with fear,
the memory
of a cry

caught,

echoing,
in my throat.

Even here.


In another world,
it is Spring-time,
.  
in another world,
fire touches me with careful
fingers,

runs its lash through me….

In another world,

it is March 25.

My bed-chamber
(for I cannot, for all my trying,

call,
nor think of it,
as a smial)

lies almost in silver clouds.

Fair towers,

pearl'd rose and ivory
in morning light,

surround me,

and the blue eye of the Sea
waits below.

Always,
the Sea has comforted me,

always the twin voices
of Ossë and Uinen
called to me.


Mostly,

I know peace,
held here
in this place
where time seems
 
spun

more upon
the wheeling of the gulls
than that of the stars,

more defined by the sudden
crystal

of a gentle rain
than the bright journey of the Sun
between horizons.

But not this day.

This day,

something beyond the Sea-gate
calls me,

stills my heart,

folds tight fingers of not-quite-desire
about my throat.

If I were Home,
now,

and all the years turned back,
as if they were but days,

if I were Home,

it would be  Spring,

Spring,

caught soft between Rethe and Astron
(Astron, which  always I loved for its
tender bringing-back-to-life).

and there would be naught
(in that which caught me)

which speaks to
softness,

nor gentle Spring.

Only

fire and fear,

lost pain,
madness and desire.

Even now,
my mind cannot,

will not
call forth that day.

Even now,
in muted memory,

only
bits

of sound remain…..

and
colours,

smells, sights,


confused and terrible,

shattered
like  slivered glass
flung upon the floor,

pressed like rotting leaves
held eternal by gold-amber.


In the still rooms of my mind,

(or is it, in truth,
the truth,

and this isle
but my hopeful dreme?)

my hand finds a circlet
of heated gold….

It sings to me……     



There is other singing,
below,

above,

all about me.

Its gentle pull leads me back to myself:.

The Fair Folk,

bidding the day farewell,

welcoming the blue-lavender
of night.

 I go down to them,

walk among them,
feel their Song

edge
through me like light,

rise,
unhindered
into moon-shadowed darkness.


It follows the gentle line of the shore,

touches
where waves  lace salt-bitter
fingers

upon unyielding rock….

Wrapped around by its mystery,
wandering

the ancient paths of its beauty,
 
I forget what day it might be,

there,

on the other side of the Sea.

Next year,
perhaps

I shall remember again.


Yes.

Next year,
assuredly, I shall remember.

Next year,

in a moment shared out
betwixt remembrance
and regret,


between joy and pain

I shall see home
again.