Mellon

- jan-u-wine
Deep-piled,
cushioned-orange leaves
line the sleeping
garden.
 
The road waits,
chocolate with mud,
beyond the gate.
 
Soft warmth
flows
from the grate,
touches my cheek,
 
shadows,
like gilt-edged
memory,
the figures at the high desk.
 
Gold-hair'd to grey
they lean to each other....
 
nibs hard edge
scratching,
hesitant
upon ivory
parchment.
 
Shy eyes,
green as old
Withywindle,
beseech steadiness
from a wavering,
child-plump hand.
 
Wandering,
faded blue,
Uncle's eyes
regard
the large roundness
of the effort.
 
Brows still dark
against the advance of age
consider
the studied spill
of letters.
 
Sam.
 
Samwise Gamgee
has learnt
to write
his name
this day.
 
In the dying spell of fire-light,
we sit,
shoulder-to-shoulder.
 
Bittersweet chocolate,
poured hot
and thick
as porridge from the silver pot,
is our reward for an afternoon
of scholarly endeavour.
 
My cup is blue,
like the Sea.
 
Sam's is red,
like the roses
he loves so well.
 
There is honey'd seed-cake,
warm yet from the oven's touch.
 
Somehow,
as dusk gathers
in the corners,
stealing light
from the round window,
somehow,
I know that Sam
wishes
me to read my lesson
to him.
 
These words.
 
Oh, they are like
music,
these words...
 
like stars and velvet night
and leaves
shivering with pale moon.
 
I feel that I have always known them,
as if, in some other time,
they were my words.
 
They fall from me,
like a rope of gleaming
silver,
threading its way to
gentl'd silence.
 
Not even Uncle
speaks
when I have done.
 
He smiles
in that funny way
he has
and kisses
my forehead,
shutting the door
softly
behind him.
 
I did not bother,
I realize,
to translate the verse
for the lad.
 
No matter.
 
His head lies
heavy
upon my shoulder,
small hand
open
to the fire's watchful
gaze,
mouth pleased
in sleep.
 
Careful as can be,
I settle him against
the rug,
 
find the blotted
parchment
that has fallen
from his hand.
 
He will wish
to keep this ...
 
he will wish
to remember
this day.
 
Below the uncertain
stutter
which marks his name,
 
I trace the date-rune
in letters that run
like the Anduin.
 
The date-rune,
and
the new word
Uncle
has taught me
to write
today:
 
mellon.