by Ven Halfwest
A mound of downy heather is waiting on a hill
Where we might lie together when all the world is still,
And autumn finds the evening, and starlight finds the stones
That witnessed Beren's grieving and guard his father's bones.
The whin has withered over, the grass is burned and bleak,
But whispers haunt the clover; the silver birches speak.
Though no one's there to hear them or teach them how to sing,
The dreams we once had near them still to their branches cling.
And where the leafless alders, like cavalry, embark
To charge their catkin antlers against the roaring dark,
Though night was never fiercer, it only takes a sigh
To break the water's mirror and tear the fragile sky.
In time the fickle seasons recycle age and youth;
Both night and day are treasons against each other's truth;
Eternal wars are waging that neither side can win;
And where there are no endings, no stories can begin.
So rest you here beside me, and vex the King no more.
His pawns are captured idly and scattered on the floor
No more to strive and suffer, but slumber at his feet
And let the Land, our mother, cocoon us in the peat.
A mound of downy heather is waiting on a hill
Where we might lie together and let the world be still.
When autumn finds the evening, come join me on the stones—
The earth will hear our grieving and claim our weary bones.