This is a set of three poems for the Gardens of the Houses of Healing - the first, Eowyn's, is more flowing in style while I chose a more military structure for Faramir. The third is set in Ithilien, after their wedding.

Strange Comfort: Eowyn in the Garden

Grey-white walls enclose so few living things,
There is little green or open in this city of stone.
The benches dream of green, with their mossy carvings,
But they too, are cold and hard and lonely when touched.
Above, more buildings, and above that the mountain peaks...
No, there is no escaping being overshadowed in such a place.
Overshadowed...aye....
Somewhere just over there, nearby, under golden cloth my leige lies dead.
Taken in his moment of glory, overshadowed by....no,
No. I will not think upon such things.
I must turn my mind to other thoughts lest that darkness return for
I would not have the gift of light given me so soon despised.
Commanded to live. It is a strange thought - yet I feel it.
Kept from a clean and honorable death, I must endure it somehow.
This is my battle now. Finding some way to live.
Shattered pieces of dreams only wound if I touch them.

The nighttime is dark though cleaner than it has been.
I had almost forgotten that darkness could be clean.
Though the moon whispers to me of the late hour,
Yet I would stay just a little, to look out upon the city,
To breathe the sharp freshness of mountain snows above.
I do not turn when I hear his steps.
The Captain, now Steward, coming once more to me.
He who has also borne great troubles; a strange comfort to me.
Brought out of death, he struggles to find his life as I do.
A gift he received from the same hands and voice.

The wind is cold, stirring in his dark hair as he stands beside me
Following my gaze over the garden wall.
Each day, each night it has been the same. Often we speak not at all.
There is a strange comfort in it, his silences and small words;
We are leaders without followers for a time, a fragile time.
I do not look to be treated gently yet he does so anyway,
And somehow I find no offense. Perhaps it is because he does not
Question my strength, or my thoughts, or my silences.
He does not question who I am or how I came to be here.
We simply walk together, heal together.
Why do I look for him each evening? He warms me with a glance.
A strange comfort for me, knowing this warmth without a touch,
To feel safe when he is near, I who have never asked for safety.

"Walk with me." He says, and I do.
Inside my heart I look askance at myself.
What of my own people? My own ambitions?
Yet... I want to walk in the garden with him,
To walk and wander and to have it never end.
To live in a garden
With him at my side, forever.

A more military pattern for the Captain...

Faramir in the Garden

-

These mossy walls, their stones are old.
More open lands you love, perhaps.
Here, walk beside me. You look cold;
Around your shoulders, please, draw this wrap.

Do you remember Grey Mithrandir?
With the learned I have studied.
Ah, for his wisdom! If it were mine,
Would my hands have stayed unbloodied?

Could I find in books salvation?
Do not believe all wisdom's arms;
I lift my sword up for my nation,
But learning deflects deeper harms.

Deeper harms with wounds that linger.
If hearts are strong, bodies will heal.
You and I, we know they mingle,
We know despair's sword, sharp and real.

My father loved my elder brother,
When I was small I saw his smile.
He sometimes even smiled for others,
But not for me, his younger child.

My brother taken from his side,
My father's sharpness cut my heart.
Though I had thought to stem that tide,
To harden feelings, set apart...

Defenses he always perceived,
Relentless force, his comments pierced.
Would he have brought me to my knees?
I tried to please; he remained fierce.

Oh father, why was there no blessing?
Why did you turn your face from me?
If I gave my life, never resting
Would my brother's smile be given me?

Mithrandir told me father loved me,
That he would show it nigh his end,
Why did his approval drive me
To his will, my own to bend?

Now he lays in ash, no longer
Can I reach him. But his voice...
I remember it grew stronger
After he had made his choice.

Fragments I remember, dry wood...
Smoke-scent, soft oil. Then the flames...
And somewhere in that fire, I could
Hear my father scream my name.

Tangled thoughts and tangled feelings,
Through my fevered mind they've wandered.
Dire events - I still am reeling,
Come, walk with me, and let me ponder.

These are dark times, do not mind me;
My words stumble without a grace.
Thank you for your listening silence,
The quiet moonlight on your face.
-

Ithilien Sunset

Lips of rose, the sweetest taste of summer bees;
Beeswax tapers flicker and pool late this warm evening.
Wooden sun dipping into honeyed clouds at end of day,
Red as berries crushed between a child's teeth.
Golden thread and pale hands,
Waterfall's crescents and circles of moonlight move in the water.
Blackened wood and rotting bark, spongy mulch and river mould.
The scents are heady, the sights beyond dreaming.
Walk with me, beloved.

Up towards the mountains, in the winter
Silver-edged fir trees shall whisper with a burden of snow,
Silence and muffle the wood under its woolen cloak.
Sharp-edged ice-crusts shall cut the fetters of starving deer
Leaving their red-lace droplets in the snow.
A merciless beauty found as readily in the shapely curve of bone
As in rising moon or scented bud.
Out upon the plains, the wind shall mourn the frozen grasses,
And all life breathe softly, deep in burrows or bowers.
In the wood, the cry of the hunted echoes in the silence.

But then the springtime will come, beloved.
Amid pungent needles matted under moss, soft as any lover's bower.
Fern will uncurl, hiding last season's crumpled remains under a new green.
Life embracing death, as is the way of this world.
Saw-toothed grasses, blades that could steal away a life
Will rustle softly in the shade, sheathed in bindweed and creeping vine.
The scars of war will begin to fade. The fountains will find their voices.
How soft is this early winter night, past the summer's
Remembered warmth, flitting dreams of light.
The new life you have brought stirs within me.
A ruined garden once, but we shall tend it, you and I
And make our home beneath its fragrant boughs.

-

Lothlórien

Golden Wood of sunlight, a cloth woven fine
With silver threads of ancient moonlit trees.
Evenings and daybreaks weave on the loom of Time
A verdant brocade of textured amber and green.
Springtime whispers secrets to Autumn’s listening peace.
Petals of starry blossoms scented sweet
White and golden, gold and white,
Gracefully mingle with fallen leaves,
Dance slowly together amid the trees.
Scattering in the soft breath of night.

Peacefully standing beside the river,
A quiet place, a soft banner furled.
The world rushes and eddies past you ever,
Time, frothing past with its eddies and swirls
Fails to touch the still waters of your pool,
The ageless hues of morning and evening;
Silver stars and starry blossoms. A mural of
White petals, leaves, sun and moon,
Slight traces of years against you leaving.
Brush-marks of age flutter down from above.

Silver falling Nimrodel, softly singing,
Whispers your story to herself in the night.
To those who listen a tale she is bringing
Her murmur-shining voice remembers, recites;
Clean and clear waters from pure and cool snows.
No evil here but what you yourself have wrought
In the dark-beating depths of your mortal heart.
No evil but what you enclose
Hidden where mind and soul allow no thought.
Herein are the choices that set you apart.

One day the voices that sing within your boughs
Will be stilled by the passing of their time.
Dead leaves will gather in your silent founts,
The stars will go unanswered in their rhymes.
The pool of Time will lay empty and dry,
The wild nettles encroach with abandon.
With the children of dawn no longer dwelling,
No longer holding back the tide,
The Ages rush in and leave none standing;
The last timeless haven swiftly felling.


Time washes over the Wood and its people –
Smoothing the edges that once sharply stood.
Turning and turning in the circle of years
Bright tumbled sea-glass, silken driftwood.
Refinement reveals your changing beauty;
You cannot stay apart always.
You know that Sorrow will one day find you.
For now you will lay at peace, caressed, soothing
Warm breezes, sweetly scented elanor-days
Of dreaming under skies of changing blue.

Gentle rest and starry blossoms;
At peace among your silver stars and fountains.
Sweet interlude for travelers,
Dreamflower of the Elves.

-

Wormtongue

Voice smooth as silk,
Warm and
Replete with carefully chosen wisdom,
Soothing as softly perfumed oils;
Tongue bearing the essence
Of a dragon's cunning,
Wormtongue.
The voice of the ancient dragons,
The great Worms of old
Lives on in your choices of words,
Like the hypnotic gaze of a snake,
Your counsel gently approaches and
Binds.
Softly you use them to weave your net
Around him,
Slowly, slowly you notch it tighter...
Ensuring he will make no move
Or decision without you.
Until he can be consumed;
His will sipped away drop by drop,
Under the spell of your counsel.
How wise your words sound,
How compassionate and kind,
Always in great consideration
Of his weaknesses.
Convincing your prey that you alone
Truly understand him.
As a dragon counts and tallies his gold,
You carefully weigh the balance of your power.
Surely as a good servant you will be rewarded?
Surely, the one who taught you how to speak thus
Will grant you your riches in due time.
Surely the one who taught you to deceive so well
Is trustworthy...
As a dragon secure in your lair
You curl around your ill-gotten treasure,
In foolish assurance you do not fear
These few, newly come to the door.
The power of the tongue
Seems greater than any man's strength...
And the woman you have been promised
Is always kept near.

-

This began as a sort of acrostic, but the end result turned out differently than I had expected, and more like a blessing. Her words to Gimli are embedded as the beginning of each line.

Galadriel's Message

-

To one who has traveled far,
Gimli of the Dwarves, under the wood where no
Son of the earth has trod for many a year,
Of earth and stone and fire's darkness are you, like
Glóin, your father, and his father before him -
Give me no gold, bring me none of your gems.
His hands were most likely calloused, as yours, a
Lady's gentle greeting they have rarely known, a
Greeting that I give you now, my
Lockbearer, a bearer of heart's treasure.
Wherever your fate takes you under the sun,
Thou shalt go with the wood's blessings, as
Goes the green leaf through its days, go you.
My own days under this sun are ending,
Thought and life flow away, falling from my hand
Goes the ending of our tale under these stars,
With many of my people I will soon be gone -
Thee, my Lockbearer, think of me,
But do not let your heart be troubled,
Have no cup of darkness for your partaking.
A long road lays before you, weary
Cares, weary days, but great joys also.
To such as you, this will be no great burden. I
Lay my own burdens down soon, taking up naught.
Thine people, thine inheritance will yet stand a while,
Axes and swords, jewels and gates.
To your people and those you serve, I bid
The farewell of an Age both blessed and cursed,
Rightfully and wrongfully have we lived, and the
Trees will remember.

-

The Banks of the Anduin

-

He stands over me in the dark of the night,
Crowned with stars,
Sweet light fading in the unclean grasping
Fingers of eastern cloud as it
Reaches out, intruding between
My eyes and theirs.

His keen eyes see nothing.

Out of the night’s stillness,
An unearthly cry. Without thought I am suddenly
Crouching down, nowhere to go – where can I hide?
Some long-forgotten voice buried deep in my being cries out:
Burrow into the brown, concealing blanket of earth!…
To some hidden place among the roots of trees
Where none can find me.
River gravel bites into the palms of my hands:
Hard, sharp, cold and wet. Scented of rotting leaves,
Mud pulls at me with clammy fingers,
Soaks unheeded into my cloak; the endless slow decay
Of this wooded bank presses in around me.

Listening.

Listening, I dare not even breathe.
No sound now but the soft hiss and lap,
The deep murmur of the ever-passing river,
Silence.

Muted
Distant cries of enemies over the grey-glinting waters.
My enemies. Mine. My own.
They will catch me if they can, they will take it…

In the night, the world loses its color and substance.
Hues of grey, deepest blue, darkest black…blacker than midnight,
Blacker than any shadow of this world has right to be
On wings approaching.
On wings.

Pain suddenly claws at my shoulder, aching, remembering.
Fear raises up before me, mesmerizes my thoughts,
Holds me in its web.

Where can I go that they cannot find me?
How can I not be found?

They will find me.

Horror, as a wave, washes over my being -
This is no dream, this is no nightmare. I will be consumed in this icy darkness,
Pulled under the waters of this fear to drown forever.
Held under by this ring of burning fire until my struggles cease,
Forever still; the cold water of death washing over me,
Trapped without rest in a grave without decay,
No breath of life,
No peace of death.

I am lost.

It is lost.

The bow suddenly sings above me;
The fearless slender bolt seeking its mark.
There is a scream in the dark…
And it is

Not

Mine.

My breath shudders back into my body.
The night is soft, and clean, and silent again.

Shivering,
I look up at the tall Elf above me,
Crowned with stars.

-

Two Such Friends

"Together the Elf and Dwarf entered Minas Tirith, and folk that saw them pass marvelled to see such companions..."

You are the depths and sturdy endurance,
I am the heights and far-seeing eyes.
You show my silent heart the way to grieve:
Your sobs rend the air where mine cannot cry.
As a mountain is barren without its trees,
As a jewel that is lifeless without the sun,
So we are lessened when we are apart -
It was meant for our two paths to be one;
One friendship.

You are stability, your heart deeply rooted
Among the unchanging earth and stone,
I am the living and breathing and moving
I know the sorrow of being left alone,
By the passing of loved ones swiftly aging,
I know the passage of seasons and time.
You give me a sense of something that lasts,
I give you a glimpse of the patterns of time;
Of loving that lives.

You are undaunted, ploughing down deep
While I walk ever soft, lightly overhead,
You show me a different beauty in things,
Of beauty and love and art, passion-fed
I would have never seen or known them without you.
We complement each other and so we are strengthened:
A bright shining flame and an iron torch,
Clear running water and a marble fountain,
The Stars and the Earth.

Yours is the darkness, the quiet of the depths,
With sunlight used as an artist would a brush,
Carefully admitted to highlight the stone,
To the graven masterpiece a final crowning touch.
Mine is the daylight, the brightness in the leaves,
The varied shapes of nature, the manner of their growing.
The flowing of the woods with random flecks of light,
The sunlight is to me all my sustenance and being.
We join the dark and the bright.
Your life is from the earth, expressed in shapes of stone,
My life is from the sun and sky, the woodlands and the air.
With you beside me, we are sunlight on a jewel,
Your beauty revealed in my shining by you, fair,
Mine strengthened and reflected among your shadows, bright,
Though few can understand how we complete one another;
And they stare at us in wonder as we walk the city streets.
They have never seen such an Elf and Dwarf together;
They have never seen
Two such friends.

-

This poem folds back on itself, the ending coming back to the beginning, so the waves may continue as long as you like.

Seabird's Cry

My soul fills my eyes,
In this daybreak's light.
My tears must be held back.
Coming out of waking dreams,
In the cool of the morning I know -
I know afar my dreams still await me:
Endless rhythms of a light-flecked sea,
Silver and gray, with everpresent breezes.
The wind carries with it the salt-air tang,
The wind brings with it the cry of birds.
How long to be borne and not follow?
Their plaintive tones tears my heart;
Seabirds' cries, as no other sound.
Ah, deeply drawn in sea-longing,
All its ever-changing mystery.
Against the deepening blue
They spread their wings,
I desire to join them,
To turn in the air
In freedom as
They do
In the
Sky.
Ah -
My heart...
No longer at
Peace, between
Two loves pulled.
For I cannot forget,
How the Lady's words
Have proven all too true -
Far-seeing, in wisdom knew.
In loneliness and longing, I am
No longer content in leaf and bud;
Even surrounded by spring's beauty
No longer at home among sweet woods.
In the longing for the sea my captured heart
Beats confined to this earthen land yet a while.
There are many wounds yet in need of healing.
Many tasks that are awaiting their fulfillment.
In the green leaf's shade I must abide longer,
I cannot allow my heart yet to take lead.
Calling to the meeting of land and sea,
The seabird's cry fills my dreams;
Crystal foaming crests of waves,
Murmurs of dreams beyond
The ever farthest shores.
Of sunlight on water,
The hues of storms,
Iridescent spray.
The seabird
Wheels,
Cries -
Alas!
My heart!
Such longing
I cannot conceal;
My soul fills my eyes.

-

Pippin in Gondor

-

How lonely is the sound of this city at night,
Unknown voices, borne on cold, smoke-scented air
Behind the dark walls there are soldiers out of sight,
Beyond them, a lantern's broken glare and shadow
On the debris of war -
Evidences of black forays only recently past.
So lonely; the shadow from the East seems only
A darker stain on the shadow in my heart.

Banners rustle softly overhead on the towers,
Whispering to one another, their bright
Signets lost in the deepening shadows
As surely as we may, all of us, be lost.
Somber voices, low - out of place, muted
In the grandeur of this ancient city.
No doubt there were once brighter days here,
Music and cheer. The only music I have heard
Is the bell of the night watch - muffled tolling,
Murmuring low and deep as the river nearby;
Cold, deep and strong, as the heavy hand of duty.

Denethor. The chill deepens inside me at the thought.
Is my life to be spent thus in service to him,
Hard, kinglike man of Gondor seated in ancient stewardship,
An empty, forsaken throne crowning the steps
Behind him.
My life given to him, for his son's sake.
(I grieve for both his son and myself, I cannot deny.)

Columns grasping upward, hard, grey lines of them,
As if they were once living trees in ranks long gone cold.
Carven images of Men made even bigger by their deaths,
Lining edges of an echoing, heartless chamber.
I fancy they would even make Gandalf feel small,
If that were possible.
Such a sadness pervades, where one should expect
It to evoke glory instead.
(But I have learned to keep such thoughts to myself.)

My memory of sweeter days, not so distant past seems dim
And faint. It seems so far now, and I so small.
Below me the cloud-faded hills across the darkened plain,
The river, running dull - no longer a barrier of strength,
To keep out the growing threat.
All shadows fade eventually, don't they?
What is to become of us if they do not?
(Where has Merry got to in all of this?)

Riddle of my heart: such rending loneliness in the midst of many.
I cannot keep my heart and mind from turning to the others -
Our hope suspended by such a slender chain.
I am only one small soldier in a city preparing for war,
Bound in service to a stern, unyielding lord.
Such thoughts would have crushed me once, but then
I never would have thought I could bear any of this.
Such a hard lesson to learn - how burdens are laid,
And how they can be borne beyond natural strength.
(Where is he? Is he safe? Are they together - or even alive?)

Such a city would have been beyond the imagination
In the Shire. A tale for the fireside.
I reach for comfort in that, but No.
Such fears could not be borne there either.
Lonely and cold it is, yet strongly built and of such stones!
So unlike any other place I have yet been.
Hard angles, tall doorways, so many barricades and ways.
So little that is soft, green or growing.
Ah, what would I give just to walk in my parents fields again,
Clear water, honest faces, shade in summer and scent of flowers.
Have I any hope of seeing it again -
(Where has Merry got to in all of this?)

The blackness deepens - the lamp awaits kindling.
I shall have need of its small flame,
Though it neither warm
Nor comfort.

Merry on the Pelennor Fields

A cold wind is rising,
Ripping at the banners with its hissing teeth,
Lifting from my forehead sharp curls
Matted and heavy with blood not my own.
Chilled within and without,
The sudden emptiness and pain have left me
Trembling.

Dead eyes watch me dully:
Eyes of death are all too near,
Looking up at me midst crushed grass and clod.
Hideous beast eyes, sunken-in and crusted
Slowly drying in the coiling reek,
Their Master’s own terrible gaze yet burns
In my memory;
A torment to my mind.
How can darkness have such fire?

The eyes of its intended prey reflect the darkened ragged sky,
Stilled in death, long-lashed brown eyes
White-rimmed as the death-fear left them,
Blood-flecked from the anguished desperation,
White muzzle yet spattered with reddened foam.
You tried to save your Master, you tried.
But your eyes will never again quicken to your master’s call,
Brighten at the sound of the Horn of the people,
Nor light with the joy of the running.

And the one who befriended my aching heart,
My dear beloved Lord, as a father you were to me…
Gone grey as ash, pale as the smoke that rises above us.
As the colorless wash of a winter’s twilight sky.
Your dead eyes are blind to both banner and kin.
Empty windows of a plundered house.
My arm hangs heavily as I kneel,
So cold, so cold.
In the wind my tears bite like trails of ice,
Is the warmth of life so fleeting?

Eowyn, courageous lady – oh, how could I not see?
You came seeking out the warrior’s death,
Covering your despair in war’s poison glory.
As a lily bruised and cut, trampled in the field
You reached for the ending of your bitter song,
Only to see it take your own Liege
Striking him down before your horrified eyes.
And mine.
Your soul spilled out as golden as your hair.
In the mist you lay, so still, so still.
The grass under my knees is slick
With blood not my own.

Tears quench the embers of my own battle-fire
In this blackened, acrid, smoke-laden mist.
My heart beats as a cold weight within me,
And I hear my own breath coming in gasps.
I am lost, so lost, so lost and alone.
My liege and my King -
I pressed your hand to my lips;
Your words of parting were spoken,
Words of the Great to this small hobbit of the Shire.
Your dead hand lays heavy in my own.
What warmth I have cannot reach where you have gone.
I must reach out to close your once-kind,
Darkened eyes.
The end of your bright morning came so soon.

“Forgive me, Lord, that I broke your command
And have done no more in your service
Than to weep at our parting.”

“Grieve not! It is forgiven.
Great heart will
Not
Be denied.”
-

Nodding by the Fire

-

Hands like wisps of parchment
Thin and delicate so you’d think the
Firelight should shine right through them.
Nodding in his carven chair
Among his cushions and shawls he sits.
Furrows of joy and care alike
Have traced his beloved face;
The memories of his life are in its creases.
Crowned with white wool by the passing of years,
He warms himself
And the light shines upon him like fire and snow.
Soft curls touch near sleeping eyes.
The book and pen lay open in his hands,
Slowly slipping off of his knee.
Outside the fountains splash softly,
And scents of flowers and woodsmoke
Warm beeswax and spices fill the room.
We do not wish to wake him –
It heals the heart of journeying just to watch him sleep.
The logs settle into cinders with a sound like glass.
Eh?
I wasn’t sleeping.
Now, where were we in your tale?
Tell me all about it. Don’t leave anything out.

The Havens

On the shores of land
Where the seabirds cry
And the waves swirl their foam
As they wander and sing,
There’s a waiting ship
For the quiet ones
Who turn from the labors
And sorrows life brings.

Weep
For those seeking the Havens,
For the land will be barren of much that was fair.
Softly
Heard, songs of the Havens,
For so many voices no longer sing there.

By the light of stars
Turning in their paths
And the shine of their faces
Though the dawning be grey,
There’s a place for tears
For those left behind
Whose hearts feel the parting
As they stand by the quay.

Weep
For those seeking the Havens,
Not all tears are evil though many will fall.
Farewell
Dear ones of the Havens;
Crossing the waters, remember our call.

For this precious one
Going to his peace
The one who was bearing
The burden so lasting,
Now the time has come
To bid friends farewell
For they will be whole,
Though they weep at his passing.

Weep
For those seeking the Havens,
Though the grieving will wane and healing will come.
Starlight
In his hand is still shining
Though the brightness of stars are soon lost in the sun.

Soft are the tears at the Havens,
For the brightness of stars
Are soon lost in the sun.

-

Brandy Hall

(taps glass) *tink tink tink* My friends, I propose a toast to Master Meriadoc...

--

A "regular warren", to far-flung folk,

A "queer" place to those never there -

But oh, the home of many a heart

And many a morning's cheerful start,

Hot, fine breakfasts when we awoke

And a place to set aside our cares.

Brandy Hall with its windows bright,

And sunlight entering by many a door,

The entire hill almost hollowed out -

So there's always a hail or friendly shout,

To any friend that comes in sight,

And there's always room for one more.

Anyone needing a listening ear,

A batch of advice be it good or bad,

Or just the arms of a strong embrace -

Can always find one gentle face

And a set of hands that will pull you near,

Correcting or comforting if you're sad.

We are never alone or neglected here,

There's always a hearth and a hearty meal.

The gentle sound of the river ways;

A background murmur to our days

In this grand old home we hold so dear,

Warm fire and familial love we feel.

So to Brandy Hall we raise our glass,

And offer a toast to Master Merry -

May all his friendships remain true,

May all his family respect him too,

And may every blessing come to pass

Within his time here in Bucklebury.

An attempt at the patterning of Tolkien's poem "Errantry", for Gimli and his valiant run across the plains to Rohan.

The Burly Axegrinder

-

There was a burly axegrinder,

A taxminder, a warrior

He sought some orcs whose passengers

Were passing for some couriers,

Although they were no carriers,

No ferriers of frippery,

No ring of heavy golden shine

Beholden midst their livery.

The orcs ploughed through topography

No pause to breathe, so tauntingly

They hauled their prey potato-sacked

And cracked their whips most constantly

The hunters three, persistantly

(Consistent in their tracking feat)

A leaf of Lorien they found,

All pounded down in loam and peat.

The dwarf revelled in runabout,

This turnabout of who's pursued.

With friends he tracked, and puffing far

For ruffians whose spoils accrued

His feet pumped on through grassy plains,

Swift passage, leagues of gasping toil

To reclaim both lest handling rough

Should shuffle off their mortal coil.

There came a troop of horseriders

Their course beside the selfsame track

With hoof and spear they hemmed them in

By pennant green they waved them back.

Pressed in and questioned to confess

They jested not, stared merciless

As those who know betrayal's jess

And hood would fail their hawkeyed test.

The dwarf he gave a measured glace

At dancing hoof and sharpened lance

With his companions looking on

He forsook all courtly variance;

To their alarm he challenged them,

And malleable his enmity

By whether they'd free passage trade:

Give Lady's due, or penalty!

Eomer gave an answer swift

A gift of passage through the land

But challenge of the Lady's grace...

Through facing dwarvish axe at hand,

He'd not agree that golden nets

Weren't waiting yet in wooded cove.

Though they'd slaughtered orcs and "child"less

They'd piled the mess on flaming stove.

With a growling overture,

The Dwarf turned back from man and horse

To seek again his halflings' fate

With unabating dwarvish force

And barring any sophistory

In history to put down his place 

Underneath his braided beard,

Unfearing grin upon his face.

Structured poetry always takes a little more work, but the rhythm of it especially when the sea is any part of the subject matter seems to call for it. This is one more for Mithlond, for patient Cirdan and the ships he set upon their way.

The Way Home

-

There were ships going forth from the Havens,
Fleet of sail, sea-swift and strong.
Bright Bay of the Blessed, faces turned to the West,
Drawing hearts to where they belonged.
Aged hands remained young in shaping
The wood and the cloth for the way,
For the vessels they give help others to live,
Eyes lifting to brighter days.

There were ships going forth from the Havens,
Filled with those weighted down and bent,
Each bow in the waves a release of the stays,
Each sea-wind a breath heaven-sent.
They came to the Havens in sorrow,
War-wearied by darkness they'd known,
Yet bright were their brows as the foam 'neath the prows
Turned at last toward their home.

There were ships going forth from the Havens,
'Til at last remained but one,
Patiently waiting for Ages' abating,
For the day when Battle's won.
How sweet was that singing arrival,
That day filled with music did dawn,
And the weeping of tears for balming of fears
Was heard one last time in that song.

There's a ship going forth from the Havens,
And upon her that one light shone,
Soon lost in the sun, final journey begun,
And the last watched it sail,
Alone.

-

Thorns

-

A
star
single
piercing
through
sharpened
thorns; one
bright eye to
answer. a spark
of life in a deadly
land where living is
suffering and merciless.

A
life
filled,
twisted
by death.
no life on
ash-ridden
plains giving
answer like this
one that breathes
and gives an answer
in dark empty silence.

A
word
spoken
in a silent
resolution
binding up
the two lives,
a hope's-spark
binding up both
dead hearts; one
small light so lonely,
wandering and cold.

A
mute
tongue
speaking
one word
for both, one
back to still be
leaned upon, one
mouthful of scant
water to share, one
spark of faith to carry,
one bleeding hand to hold.