By Day The Flowers
By Pippin
The symbelmynë on the hill has sprung once more, and now the days are becoming longer. But longer still are the nights. I look out of the window across the moors, hoping beyond hope that there will be torches appearing to cut through the inky darkness, that you will appear as the valiant warrior returning from battle, that this has all been nothing more than a fitful dream. Yet I do not wake.
The clear spring sky is full of stars by night, by day the flowers are full of bees and children's bare hands tugging at stems to bring to me in an attempt to make me smile.
"Don't cry," Ceolwyn pleads to me with her ever-present handfuls of marigolds. "Fæder will be home soon."
Cælin stands by her side, drooping flowers held half-heartedly, but does not say anything. He understands. She does not.
Each morning when the sun rises, the first pale beams touch the petals of the white flowers, and I know there will be no torches lighting your way home to me. And there will be no clattering of hooves towards the house, no anchoring embrace. And soon the marigolds will all have been killed. And to what end? To make me smile, though briefly and for my daughter's sake alone.
I miss you. We miss you. Come back to me, sail back to me across the sky, this empty, cold spring sky. The evening primroses glow ghostly white against the night canvas, and I hate them.