The Hawks

Mail on fist, hawk on wrist,
Who cares what my little brother thinks?

‘We have come too far out today, Boromir.
The trumpets call us home!’

Every hawk must seek the sun
Every hound be let to run.
I know which of us my father
Will forgive.

Sword and shield,
Warhorse stamping under me,
All power, all speed.
Faramir’s bright beloved head
Bent over his books.

Starlight and moonrise
Mist and winter evening
The smell of leaves and woodsmoke
The clatter of hooves
In the narrow courtyard.
Faramir’s face pale in the wavering torches.
‘Father will be angry!’

A kestrel to my peregrine,
I will take everything you should have had
The love, the praise,
Even your dream
Your terrible dream.

- Varda