The Row and the Rain

- jan-u-wine
Odd, isn't it,
the things
caught in the well-spring
of remembrance…..

I remember
rain.

The Hill is soft with it.

Even the earth
greys
beneath its
burden of wet.

Quiet.

Like soft foot-falls
it is,

like being wrapped within
the arms of a cloak.

Safe and sweetly dark
and
warm.

How long I stand in the open
door,
I do not know.

The round brass of the knob
warms within my hand,
holds me to this time,
this place.

Chimney smoke curls
questing fingers
against the stone of the sky,

presses blade-sharp scent
into air made keen  by  rain.

Little mistress Goldberry
(who shall always be fair,
but n'er a faerie),
 is playing at puddle-jump
 

The grass at her feet
is the most fragile
green.

Tender, like new life.

Somehow, I feel
my life
is new.

I look about:

how very far I have traveled,
just to see again
this quiet Row,

just
to feel the rain falling sweet
upon my face.

Like a mother taking stock
of her child,
I observe my hands.

 I count that which is whole
and
that which is not.

I smile and let the gentle
fall of sky-held water
fill the cup of my palm.

Even this,
these ordinary drops
of crystal,
are precious….

even they
echo with Home.

I hold my hand to my mouth.

This is what Home tastes like.

It was not too great a price.


It is dark along the Row,

dark,
with the Moon about to slide
from changeling clouds.

Candles wink like window-bound fire-flies.  

Time for me to go in.

Time to stop wandering.

I shut the door
quietly
against the night.

I can still hear the rain,
tapping  fingers
within the circle of the flue,
hissing now and again
upon the angry heat of the hearth,
running its slow race
against the face of the window.

I think I will always remember
this night,

I will always remember
the Row and the rain.