(it is said that the last of the Ringbearers passed the gate of the Sea, sailing away into the West)
* * * * * * * *
It is different, here.
Time has not the same flow....
yet
I cannot remember how else her tide might feel.
The very sunlight fills me with calm, the grey storm of the Sea touches my mind with dreams of peace.
The great wheel of minutes, hours, days,
drifts....
a smooth, veinless leaf suspended in the crystalline river of my life. * * * * * * * *
A ship rides in the haven of the harbor, white sail luffing in down-turned wind.
Grey, swan-prow’d, she shimmers there, like a pearl laid upon the brow of the Sea.
I smile.
A familiar shape stands sentinel by the rail, a roughened hand, nervous as a rider upon an errant pony, grasping a silver length of Elven rope.
Sam.
I have so much to tell him....
so much...
and yet, nothing....
nothing at all. * * * *
The rounded green of the door stands open to the soft cries of mourning doves, their lament entwined in the faint salt of the Sea.
He is waiting.
I pass through the riot of my careless garden, brushing fingers through the soft tangle of amaryllis where Bilbo lies....
Odd....the lilies bloom there as well.... their speckled gowns lie upon the sugared-pink-and-green curve of earth.
My mind fills with thoughts of him
and
Sam.
He will miss seeing again the lad who so painstakingly learned his letters so long an age ago.
He will miss speaking slow Elvish and hearing a shy, stumbling reply. * * * * *
Soft sighs of waves hush against sea-wormed wood....
he stands quite still upon the gentle shift of grey dock.
His eyes are still like sun-flecked leaves....
his hand still sturdily, warmly brown as it clasps mine. * * * * * *
There are many words as we climb from Harbor to Hill.
He tells me of the King....
my Lady Arwen....
little Pip....
and Merry.
Rosie and Elanorelle....
Even here, there are tears...
even here, I still taste regret.
We linger among the trees....
bemusedly, I see that he is naming them in his mind.
his hand touches each, gently, as if they were his child.
for a moment, I am far away, in pine-scented woods that I shall never see again....
his hands with knowing calm, fall upon my shoulder...
his eyes hold mine with steadying wisdom. * * * * * * *
The three Ringbearers:
Here, in this darkening garden, a world and more away from Home, we meet again.
gentl’d afternoon settles to lavender dusk....
Already, we are silent.
Trailings of the vine that Sam names thatra untibah* weave their golden embroidery about our feet.
Smoke rings of insignificant magnificence rise like unspoken words into leaven’d dark.
Sam has never been one to insist on having a final word.
Sam, like much else that I have known, has changed.
“Well,” says he, bright tears shadowing the gentle sadness of his eyes, “I’m back.”
*from Old English: “there and back”