For the Anniversary of the Fall of Barad-dûr ~ ‘Upon the Ending of an Age’ by jan-u-wine.
Jan-u-wine has been inspired to write a new piece to commemorate this March 25, a poem written from the point of view of the Great Eagles as they come to rescue Frodo and Sam, lying in the midst of fiery ruin, spent, their deaths imminent. I can’t describe the mood of this piece any more than I can describe the inner life of an eagle, Jan can and does, and it is unforgettable. I am borne up with Meneldor, Gwaihir and Landroval when I read this. The poem has wings, the wings of narrative imagination. The image for this piece was made by Weta concept painter Gus Hunter. Although it was created to illustrate another Tolkien story, The Hobbit, the keenness of the eagle's eye, the readiness of the talons to grasp, the rush of air from below makes it an apt choice for this poem.
Upon the Ending of an Age (a feathered reflection)
Always, there is the wind. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
All the Ages, upon the wind.
All the Ages,
the fine down of them floating,
silent as this moment, above the clouds.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
do not dance upon the tapestried air.
They do not hold, within their non-feather'd grasp,
a certainty of how the Sun smells,
riding above the rout of battle,
or the sweet sleep waiting within a bracken'd nest......
a pinioned Lord of the Air knows well
the meaning of the dusk-red staining the rock beneath them:
Life, running swiftly out,
its thick ribbon
accompanying the violent bloom of the mountain's vomited death....
Our talons hold them, tight wing-song
beating upon the wind's door, clouds bloody-pink about us,
Sun bronze and all-but-sunk in the smoke of the day.
I do not understand these soft bodies nor, indeed,
the designs or desires of such unwingéd beings.
Their days and that which they name 'seasons' hold no meaning to those who call the high winds
Bombadil might know the reason of these, all, or his Lady offer explanation
when she calls forth the crystal rain.
In the end, it matters little, our understanding.
We carry them.
They are no burden.
It is 25 Rethe in the reckoning of their little land.
Spring unfurls the banners of beech-buds upon the field below.
Of old, we have known this King's grand-sire.
His kindly hands receive the care of our charges.
Never again will there be need of such dark rescue.
Sweet, the winds of cleansed night which buttress our swift departure.