Golden Wood of sunlight, a cloth woven fine
      With silver threads of ancient moonlit trees.
      Evenings and daybreaks weave on the loom of Time
      A verdant brocade of textured amber and green.
      Springtime whispers secrets to Autumn’s listening peace.
      Petals of starry blossoms scented sweet
      White and golden, gold and white,
      Gracefully mingle with fallen leaves,
      Dance slowly together amid the trees.
      Scattering in the soft breath of night.

      Peacefully standing beside the river,
      A quiet place, a soft banner furled.
      The world rushes and eddies past you ever,
      Time, frothing past with its eddies and swirls
      Fails to touch the still waters of your pool,
      The ageless hues of morning and evening;
      Silver stars and starry blossoms. A mural of
      White petals, leaves, sun and moon,
      Slight traces of years against you leaving.
      Brush-marks of age flutter down from above.

      Silver falling Nimrodel, softly singing,
      Whispers your story to herself in the night.
      To those who listen a tale she is bringing
      Her murmur-shining voice remembers, recites;
      Clean and clear waters from pure and cool snows.
      No evil here but what you yourself have wrought
      In the dark-beating depths of your mortal heart.
      No evil but what you enclose
      Hidden where mind and soul allow no thought.
      Herein are the choices that set you apart.

      One day the voices that sing within your boughs
      Will be stilled by the passing of their time.
      Dead leaves will gather in your silent founts,
      The stars will go unanswered in their rhymes.
      The pool of Time will lay empty and dry,
      The wild nettles encroach with abandon.
      With the children of dawn no longer dwelling,
      No longer holding back the tide,
      The Ages rush in and leave none standing;
      The last timeless haven swiftly felling.

      Time washes over the Wood and its people –
      Smoothing the edges that once sharply stood.
      Turning and turning in the circle of years
      Bright tumbled sea-glass, silken driftwood.
      Refinement reveals your changing beauty;
      You cannot stay apart always.
      You know that Sorrow will one day find you.
      For now you will lay at peace, caressed, soothing
      Warm breezes, sweetly scented elanor-days
      Of dreaming under skies of changing blue.

      Gentle rest and starry blossoms;
      At peace among your silver stars and fountains.
      Sweet interlude for travelers,
      Dreamflower of the Elves.


A. Buckles / '03