XII

Imagine a continent crossing
a galaxy belt of ice.
Imagine pale stars fallen in a frosty river,
like flashing sequins clustered on a mean,
vicious lady's white gown.
Scrunch. Scrunch. Scrunch. Imagine their cold.

And a continent is not sea-lapping land
floating along on tendrils. It is
seven armies of supple marching bodies,
men and women strung like words on a page.
Commas, children, hefted in arms.

'Now!' says Fingolfin, and the cry is taken up,
'Now! Now! Now!'
Seven hours it takes for the echo to die down.
In the silence they look at each other, wondering what next.
Proud Turgon and Finrod fair, Orodreth the wise,
Angrod, Aegnor, Argon, commanders all,
and as a candle to fireflies, so Fingon stands,
time frozen in the tears on his cheeks.

'Now,' Fingolfin says in a voice more prudent,
'I see the cursed land of Morgoth, sown first by my brother's sweat.'
('Blood,' mutters Finrod, he of foresight)
'I behold
it's green woods, and grey lakes.
It is time for victory, more victory
in an age than found in all eternity.

Let us go forth. Go now.
Leave our graves behind.
My banner, stewards.'

Heralds hoist his flag, blue and silver,
Grieving, Turgon sounds a bleary horn.
It is music, music, the song of war glorious. Tremble,
black man. For what know you
of valour, that lives and dies and lives again
in sinew, in heart, flowing like rivers of light
through the veins of the ages?
Undying Morgoth, valour is not your vandalism, smearing
empty vaults with fresh blood and running,
would you know?

Valour, Morgoth.
Fingon will show you.