head drowned in lemon water-clouds,
light falling all but to naught
within the pool’s dark hunger.
Brittle sharp-bitter rock
they are far
from the gentle paths of Home,
Winter’s dying fingers
make their cold rest beneath my cloak.
there is a blessedness to this place…..
I feel it,
as if the stones themselves yet
from feet glad with the walking,
as if the waters of the pool
the moment their chill beauty gained crystalline voice.
Sudden understanding fills me,
holds me in gladsome silence:
This is my Home.
This, as much as any other.
When I am far from this place,
and weary of my burden,
it will call to me,
its voice a shadow upon the wind,
its memoried touch a comfort
in lands emptied of all but dread.
shall open ever before me,
blood-sun scattering His purse of colour
(spendthrift lord of light)
upon the water’s
In dremes shall I see this moon,
smell the grasses lying tender and sweet
feel the wind which remembers the Sea upon my cheek.
But now there are no dremes.
Only water glinting cold below,
and a voice,
twisted by sorrow and treacherous time,
speaking to itself in the pitiable night.
It is part of me, too,
as much a part of me as the weight
which bows my head,
Or my Home, so many grievous leagues behind.
Memory and madness,
betrayed and betrayer,
I give him over to judgement.
To save him,
I tell myself,
to save him.
In time, perchance, he may
repay this well-intended deceit with one of his own.
he may be
*Quenya: In Moonlight