The Sock Drawer - 37. An Elven Pastorale

An Elven Pastorale

On a hill below a tree

Is where he lies asleep.

Around him graze and doze his sheep

And through their trundling coats you see -

How their muzzles nudge him,

Nibbling leaves out of his wreath.

How lovingly they touch him

Is what you witness from beneath.

Their soft and slow lumber

A soothing dance to his slumber.

As if to mock our closest star,

The warming sun, his walking staff

Bears at its curled top a glint,

Winking light with each breath of wind,

Like a tiny shard of his laugh

That is heard with eyes from afar.

When the sun hangs very low,

Glinting off of reed and rock,

Of gently rolling cloud his flock

Is made, cast in a shimmering glow.

Like a massive castle wall

It seems an obstacle too tall.

Like a daunting clouden keep

That never to disturb you dare

It hovers all around him there

And guards him in his golden sleep.

If ever he should be awoken

And raise the staff propped by his arm,

All the world would know the charm

Dangling from it; a round metal token.

Oh, to be that talisman!

Daring to reflect the light

Ever-fiery Grian sends bright,

Hot and proud, as mad as men,

Rolling over land to seize

Years and years to be with him –

Nights, days, and in the interim –

Now nights are glinting tapestries.