Not so Easily Mended

- jan-u-wine

This book
bears
the fair
tracery
of your hand -
fine lines
overwritten
by the Sea.
 
The Sundering Sea.
 
Where
might you be
Adventuring now?
 
Deep in the night,
when there is naught
but dark
and a fear which I cannot
name,
 
and the warm comfort of Rosie,
sleeping soft by my side,
 
I hear the whisper of wave to bow,
I see wind gentling a white sail.
 
I cannot accustom myself
to missing the sound of your voice.
 
Like the fool I was,
and the fool I remain,
I startle at not seeing you
walking
slow
upon the star-washed Hill.
   
You said
I was not meant to be torn in two.
 
No.
 
But whether meant or no,
that is what I am.
 
_____________________
 
It was cold upon the Hill this morning,
brilliant, white cold -
and Rosie,
unknowing,
made tea in that cracked,
mustard-yellow pot
that somehow you favored.
 
My thumb traces all the broken lines
upon its face....
 
mended,
 
and mended.....
 
and yet mended....
 
again.

 
Still broken,
for all the mending,
 
still less than what it was,
 
though without doubt,
still of use.
 
Like me.
 
Like you.
 
Like us.
 
____________________
 
I am,
first,
a Gardener.
 
I tend to growing things
and find my rest,
my hope,
my heart
in the green ways
of the earth.
 
And so,
the days will pass,
soft with springs
easing to summer,
blazed autumns
tumbling
unmarked to snow-held winter...
 
they will pass
and fill the empty place
inside me
with time
and memories
of other people,
other places,
other things.
________________
 
I have been
wandering
in dreams which have no meaning.
 
Light,
burnished to the soft gold
of an old farthing,
falls upon the table.
 
Rosie is holding my hand.
 
I kiss her cheek,
wet where tears
have run a salty path.
 
Her skin tastes of the Sea.
 
Oh, my Rose,
what have I done,
that you should cry so?
 
Upon the floor at my feet,
the yellow of the pot
lies broken.....
 
broken,
this time forever,
 
shards scattered across
the board
like sun-flower petals,
dying beneath the eye of the sun.
 
It will be
all right,
Rosie-love.
 
It is easily replaced.
 
Rosie
does not see
with what care
I gather each piece,
puzzling them together
in the haven of my hands.
_______________________
 
It is that very deep hour
of the night,
again,
and no one waking,
not my Rose,
not my fair Elanor,
when I stand
beneath the flowering
of the Tree.
 
The clear light of Earendil
is caught
amid
the stars of its leaves.
 
With only my hands
(always only my hands)
I reach down into the earth
where its roots cling.
 
(As if in a dream,
I see a ship upon bright waters,
hear waves upon a shore
beyond time).
 
(With a joy made larger by sorrow,
I know you are safe,
I know you are Home
at last).
 
My fingers touch,
in quiet remembrance,
each scarred fragment
(only a humble pot,
and useless, at that,
I remind myself,
and weep)
as I lay them
finally
to rest within the cradle
of dark earth.
 
__________________
 
On the morrow,
there is little Elle,
bright as the sunshine
upon her golden head,
 
and Rosie,
 
laughing
as she pins the billowed white
of sheets to twisted
line.
 
I will not think of sun glinting
upon water,
nor the sharpen'd run of sail
playing out beneath wind's breath.
 
I gather them to me,
my flowers:
Rosie,
she of the sweet earth,
 
Elanor, my star-blossom.
 
I hold them,
hold to them,
 
as only a gardener could.
 
They are my world,
 
they must be
my world.
 
within the warming circle
of their arms,
I pretend not to hear
the call
wheeling upon the errant wind -
a wind strayed from another time,
another place:
 
the lost cry of a gull
caught in the grey web of a far-away sky.