Disclaimer: This poem and the ideas in it are mine. Eowyn is property of Tolkien and the definition below comes from www.dictionary.com
A/N: This is a poem that I wrote with Eowyn as my inspiration. I often think of her as being alone in the book. It seems to me like few people understand her. If you want to read more about her, this site has a great essay: http://www.dm.net/~theswan/kramer1.html I recommend reading this with the Rohan theme playing.
Please review!!! I really want the feedback! Tell me if you are interested in seeing a sequel.
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a·lone adj.
1. Being apart from others; solitary.
2. Being without anyone or anything else; only.
3. Considered separately from all others of the same class.
4. Being without equal; unique.
[Middle English : al, all; see all + one, one; see one.]
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a·loneness n.
Synonyms: alone, lonely, lonesome, solitary
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She stands in a sea of tarnished gold grass.
It ripples in waves over the rolling hills,
Almost flattened in places by the dry autumn wind,
Which smells faintly of wood smoke and horses.
She can almost see the wind through its trail in the grass.
It stings her cheeks and whips through her hair,
Ebbing and flowing like the seas from her childhood tales.
In the distance the last rays of a cool sun
Wash over the hills and turn them into an endless flood
Of spun caramel.
They cast dark shadows on the mountains,
Which rise sharp and jagged on the horizon.
Midnight blue and hard as slate with frosted white crowns,
They provide the only decoration in a not-quite-dusky sky
That is painful in its starkness.
She is drawn to the landscape, to the wild ruggedness of it,
Painted in strong, bold stokes.
Perhaps it is because she sees something of herself in it.
She too is wild fire wrought from steel.
She stands alone, or not quite alone,
For her sword is grasped firmly in one hand,
And it is like a friend to her, an extension of her soul.
Long and sharp, it glints like one of her rare smiles,
But she is not smiling now.
Her lips are pressed together in concentration
As she dances by herself in the fields.
For that is what she is doing;
Moving gracefully in an intricate dance.
She lunges, pulls back, side steps and then sweeps her sword up into an arch,
Carving a crescent moon into the barren sky.
She braces herself against an opponent only she can see.
Maybe it's a man, or perhaps a cage.
She has often been compared to a bird.
A bird of war, like the hawk that circles overhead,
Talons outstretched to dive for a kill.
Her features are carefully schooled,
Etched in place so as to not let anything show.
But her movements now are wild and violent.
She cuts through the air with sharp strokes,
Preparing herself to knock down her opponent,
To cut through her bars and fly away.
~English Toffee~