The Rowan

May 27, 2005

he sits beside me

the Rowan Tree

his name is Row

his princeman’s


how ancient he is

and yet ageless

with long, white hair

on rock-hewn shoulders

how very ancient

he wears a hueless tunic

of ghostly patterns and shadows

images few can remember

his face is dull

as dust, some think

but his eyes are not so

lucid pinpoints of light

shine from lustrous blackness

under calm, watching

half-closed lids dark lashed

he bears a sword

plain it is but for runes

upon the long blade

it is dull as the night

in its worn steel and leather

it is naked, without scabbard

and sharp, though never touched

by whetstone or grind

only a spell stone

magic of air has keened the edge

Rowan is strong, strength incarnate

not with that of the brute

but of calculated touch

knowing of his own hands

and the wisdom is his blood

he knows of a few magicks

light and warmth to tell

but his mind he trusts most

and lifetimes over in wisdom

he is the Rowan Tree, it is enough

I saw him in a dream once

as now he did not speak

and to him neither did I a word endeavor

in respect

never would we desire such, in sooth

of blood he is granted

in ages of princes, some say

but he cares not, he is enough

warrior, runner of life

huntsman of the moon itself

he has no love, he is love

and well it is so, for he is lone

loneliness incarnate, to tell sooth

no man may find truer trust

no maid truer faith in him

he is always, yet seldom

invisible but with painful vividness

dark, dusty shadow with the halo

of starlight and firesparks

he is elusive and solid, the Rowan

and is my friend, to tell sooth

he is forever, for always

his eyes the light in my own

his voice mutely echoing my own

his essence behind my sword in fire


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