The Ringbearer's Troubadour

- jan-u-wine

He is back again,
though never have I seen him.
When dremes turn upon darkness,
drowned in the lonely hours
which wait upon dawn,
I hear him,
the single sorrowful
note of his song
star-facet bright
against an empty silence.
And I wake,
not remembering the dremes,
that some fear
has come and gone
beneath the tender
piping of his solitary voice.
No song, this,
not feathered music
like the voice of the robin
nor the liquid murmur of the finch,
hidden in some golden brake.
Like speech these single notes,
falling into the tangled confusion
of my sleep-riddled mind,
(like pebbles skipp'd upon a sweetly summer'd river)
drawing me from dread to dawn
in language naught but my heart might understand.
~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun has made smoke-wraiths upon the grass,
ghostly forms rising
from the dew-diadems crowning sharp green blades.
And still I do not see him,
note-words changing from nigh-grieved lullaby
to joyful greeting
as I lean upon the rounded sill.
Someday, I shall catch him out,
small minstrel of midnight.
Someday I shall thank him
for his words.