Forget

But I could never forget you

Like mist on a summer morning
Softer than all my whispered lies
Memories wreath my footfall
And if I stumbled and fell
I would not stay down
For you taught me to rise up
And disperse into dawn's bliss

Wait

The warm wolf of inclination comes out from night. See her come swift upon us and feel her humid breath exhaled from between the fangs of growth; for summer is here. But she will exit as fleetingly as her entrance just as we become accustomed to her warmth. For as soon as we come to love the heat that drives down like a hammer upon us; we, the temperate nails fashioned from the 'joie de vivre' of spring she is gone and winter will return. Then we will shrink to the warmth of hearths and kitchens but we will not wither. There we will rest and plan and wait by the well stocked larder for another summer to bring forth its bounty.

The Doors of Moria

From the first book of the Lord of the Rings trilogy by J R R Tolkien


The Moon now shone upon the grey face of the rock; but they could see nothing else for a while. Then slowly on the surface, where the wizard's hands had passed, faint lines appeared, like slender veins of silver running in the stone. At first they were no more than pale gossamer-threads, so fine that they only twinkled fitfully where the Moon caught them, but steadily they grew broader and clearer, until their design could be guessed.

At the top, as high as Gandalf could reach, was an arch of interlacing letters in an Elvish character. Below, though the threads were in places blurred or broken, the outline could be seen of an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars. Beneath these again were two trees, each bearing crescent moons. More clearly than all else there shone forth in the middle of the door a single star with many rays.

'There are the emblems of Durin!' cried Gimli.

'And there is the Tree of the High Elves!' said Legolas.

'And the Star of the House of Feanor,' said Gandalf. 'They are wrought of ithildin that mirrors only starlight and moonlight, and sleeps until it is touched by one who speaks words now long forgotten in Middle-earth. It is long since I heard them, and I thought deeply before I could recall them to my mind.'

'What does the writing say?' asked Frodo, who was trying to decipher the inscription on the arch. 'I thought I knew the elf-letters but I cannot read these.'

'The words are in the elven-tongue of the West of Middle-earth in the Elder Days,' answered Gandalf. 'But they do not say anything of importance to us. They say only: The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. And underneath small and faint is written: I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs. '

 

Picking up his staff he stood before the rock and said in a clear voice: Mellon! The star shone out briefly and faded again. Then silently a great doorway was outlined, though not a crack or joint had been visible before. Slowly it divided in the middle and swung outwards inch by inch, until both doors lay back against the wall. Through the opening a shadowy stair could be seen climbing steeply up; but beyond the lower steps the darkness was deeper than the night.

My picture take on it

Waiting

The softest footsteps I must ever tread

Are within slaughtering halls of dread
Here no cow will ever again run free
Never anymore sun, rain or grass, to see
Brown eyes gaze from out steely bars
And this sad sight upon my soft soul mars
And all is still save pant of loamy breath
That waits patiently for ignoble death

Touched

Nothing has changed

And yet like a tenderness
Prophesy is served
But I am not in Delphi
This is no revelation
And I am no oracle
Yet even I now know
Though the same sun rises
And birds still sing
We are being touched
By the madness of history

Gild

And so there is no more art

No soft soul to now capture
All is now silhouette
Shadows that flicker
Upon greying sheets
Fading in dimming light
They talk of waning dreams
In ever diminishing splendour
And wither can I look?
We cannot gild memories
Burnish them ever bright
See them like clear flames
Rather than slices of time
From cake gnawed by instance
That all our dreams decorated

The Two Trees of Tolkein

I made a picture in Photoshop of the 2 trees of Valinor. They are Laurelin (the gold tree of day) and Telperion (the silver tree of night) with the phases of the day.

Assassins

Humming to a destruction

To pierce the rising dawn
These yellow-black assassins
With slender rapiers drawn
The wasps have raided summer
But in winter they cannot stay
And we watch their dissolution
Where autumn takes all away
They fly upon a fading sun
Still slender, swift and sleek
But now they are a hunted prey
When the frost arrives this week

Fell

And as each tree was felled

A human came and took its place
But there still stands one tree
A last witness of its sylvan kind
And this single column of wood
A bearer of slumbering memory
Last reflection of the ancient forest
That manifests in day like pain
But at night's veil they will come
And this last sentinel shall fall
But who can tell me this
What will then give them shade?
Be the wide, green lakes, of calm
A comfort among the confusion
When all memory of a pleasing world
Is turned to bittersweet slivers
Till wind comes to blow us away
Into the deserts of a blasted earth
But I am a dreamer, so you said
But not alone in thoughts of sorrow
For once we are subsumed into history
The green shoots will emerge again
Out into a day without people
Where each human stood trees will grow

Grey

Ribbons are not the only decoration

When a triumph calls for attention
Would that we could settle for grey
Have plainer victories of conscience
But people will dance and make merry
With little, or no occasion present
And sometimes they wish for a disaster
Just to celebrate when it has passed

Elves

Now green is no longer queen

At the yellowing of the days
Magic retreats deep into forests
And there till spring it stays
The elves do not like the winter
Though they never feel the cold
They dance under warm moonlight
Never walk upon frosted wold
So look now before the leaves fall
In all the clearings in the wood
For the elves will come at dusk
If your heart is pure and good
And to soft starlight and music
Take your seat upon grassy pew
The elven tears and fairy harps
Will retell the old stories anew

Chaos

Before the evening dew draws down on day's soft breath setting upon the coldness like a dream's afterglow we shall sit in splendour among all this sweet chaos we have nurtured. For are we not artists and sculptors taking nature's rich earth  and working it with eager hands to the shape of magnificence; and if anarchy intrudes, we will let it in, so that we may wonder all the more. For here betwixt this sweet throng of unbridled green richness we may marvel at creation and growth and offer a lost hope for summers touch to linger upon it and us for a little longer.

 

 

Grapes and tomatoes ripening despite the long cold and wet summer

 

Courting spiders on the buddleia

This butterfly looks like it had a narrow escape which took part of its wing

 

Dirt

Rising and falling across void

The universe is conflagration
Stellar nurseries birth chaos
Spew galaxies like new Phoenix
To fly through nascent space-time
To spin and fury, cool and solidify
Till gravity warps and crashes speed
New singularities in dark corners
Yielding life like inexhaustible dirt

History

What is this history?

A long mirror reflecting dark times
Or bright lit reverie guiding us
For we are still;
Gladiator, senator, and soldier
Artisan, emperor or slave
We are the unruly mob
Or the Sabine women
We are still; who they were;
New scions on the bloody tree
Unless we look back to learn
To shape a better future
From these boughs of hate
History is just atonement
For our lack of humanity

Swift

Sighing like memory of forgotten love

May wind blow always its fair kisses
Tender like the touches of spring rain
This aired and soft uplifting breath
That comforts the fast ascending birds
It sets my soul to thoughts of the ocean
And a fast sailing ship to travel within
So let the wind strokes its sails to move
Upon endless blue sky fallen upon water
To follow the birds to their journey end
To a shining land where rainbows set clear
Over swift climbing cliffs and green shores

Sweet

We may all grow old but do we grow?

Whether we loved or fought or wondered
The world is closing in on our adventure
We have thickening moss on our ancient bones
Young hawks may sweep down upon us
But we are not yet their prey for the taking
In slower footsteps of a resigned enquiry perhaps
We can still tread soft and firm upon earth
On enlightened paths where conclusion waits
But how hard is it now to stay off the grass
And walk carefree among flowers once again
Now that we realise how sweet they smell

Women

Upon a rose; this velvet splendour

I would gaze upon its loveliness
And smell the scent of a good life
We all have a rare thing of beauty
Yearn that all could see its charm
Tis no contrived cry of attention
It is the simple wash of desire
To lose control to another thing
Tis not a public want of strong men
And yet in the quiet they wish it
Held in secret thrall to its allure
These men fell, bold and mighty
Held upright by feminine strength
The underpinning backbone of men
Alluring steel in womanly flows
And perhaps if I ruled the world
Held its sway within my palm
Women would be a revered as a rose

Sit

We are not so ancient yet

Walk slowly into the rain
Feel its calming touch
Smell the fragrant earth
Hear soft voices in trees overhead
And to the crest of the hill
Climb the aisle of a wooded nave
And there in reach of the stars
See the green vistas roll away
And sit upon a sunny plateau
For we are home in the sun