The earth is a winter bride, unblemished in satiny, chiffon white; her ethereal lure accentuated by soft, smoky greys of rising fog in the sun-dipped, ivory morn…
the fleecy skies wrap her in a sheer veil made of expensive, apple blossom lace, embroidered with tiny diamonds, a galaxy of shimmering stars at night and a moon motif on her pale brows…
the frost-coated silver stream flows gently down the alabaster slopes, like the sinuous, creamy, tulle train of a porcelain skinned maiden; her hair adorned with lilies and snowdrops…
earth clad in luminescent pearls of snow, delicate as seashells on a sandy shore, laid out in all her intoxicating, champagne beauty, like a newly-wed, poised and waiting; warm, hushed breath mingling with the cold air…
I wear new faces expressions to mould smiles veneers to set the tone of talks veils to disguise warts camouflage the scars harlequin faces where gaiety is calculated silver Columbinas golden Voltos I wear ritual paints I sing and dance masks become my face I become the mask…
I’ll be your lilac girl wearing the fragrance of violets and sageflowers soft amethyst gaze resting on your face kisses like dewy plums bestrewing your skin in the lilac-scented rain…
Worse than rabid dogs and vicious hyenas that gather around the fallen body of a small, frail thing is the nothingness of secondhand men on faded sofas gawking and laughing spouting platitudes and enjoying a cricket match on the telly…
Born to be your queen, O Chieftain of Dúnedain, I wait for you, as light flows like gold, near the ford of River Bruinen…
You shoulder causes and valorous odysseys, from the fertile, emerald meadows of the Shire, o’er caves and forbidding snowscapes, to the bleeding lava hills of Mordor…
Set on fire by the morning sun, the mountain peaks are enflamed; I wait for you everyday, dawn and dusk, in the deep valley of Rivendell…
You fight battles along with my brothers, O Thorongil, guardian and fierce warrior; striding across the misty mountains, holding the rune-embossed, bright blade of Andúril…
The hours blaze hot at noons, stretching like the gilded slopes of Hithaeglir, I wait for you, O Ranger from the North, still as the silver tree, in a land of stones…
You’re the wolfhound nemesis of the eye of fire, the scourge of the nine ring wraiths, you call upon the dead men of Dunharrow and conquer the Corsairs of Umbar…
The grass woodlands of Lórien breathe, in the muted red hues of quiet evenings; I wait for you, on the mounds of Cerin Amroth, with the promised, green serpent, Ring of Barahir..
You traverse twilight places, bogs and ravines, pine woods between earth and elven realms; You’re the hand that heals Faramir, leads armies to the black gate, at Morannon…
As the lilac shadows slowly descend in the forests of the silvan elves, I wait for you, as I send my prayers to the angelic gods of Valar…
You’re the sword that was broken, reforged with Elendin’s seven stars, shining red and white; flame of moon and sun, you’re Elessar, king returned and hope remade…
I abandon the bejewelled, undying lands to journey to you, my beloved Elfstone, I run away from these Elysium fields, to shelter in your dark eyes, deepening shadows…
Ianthia 