1. Hollow
Weathertop
The wind
blows cold here,
Setting the ruins to a lonely moaning.
A tower
falls, drawn back into the forgetful earth slowly,
Yellow grasses
clinging, climbing the grey stones,
Older than old, desolate
watchpost to the sky.
These wild lands; this empty stillness
So
breathless under unseen eyes.
Silently
They lie in
waiting
Beneath these ragged, windswept trees.
Cold and unseen,
as ancient bones within a burial mound
Lie covered by thatch and
mouldered leaves.
Gracious autumn has turned ice-deadened,
Sodden
leaf-drifts no sounds make,
Only the still movements of the
dead.
Fading sun
In setting, pulling down
The last
shredded remnants of peace.
Shivering innocence curls around its
impotent fire,
Willing small flags of light to protect.
Another
flame, cold, smoulders near.
Black is the night beyond the
hollow;
Black the dell beneath
Weathertop.