The dryads are hovering

over their trees, in sadness, 

distress, in disbelief;

and dropping their shyness, 

and losing their wisp,

they cry in unison,

with growls and screams.

 

The tree nymphs are grieving 

and wailing with woe to

all who will listen on

the pale earth below:

This is our garden, 

this is our home;

what is there left if 

the trees all be gone.

 

Then Artemis joins them,

hearing their cries, and

they circle with promise,

filled up with great joy;

dancing and dancing and 

singing with glee as tree sisters

celebrating the end of outrage.

 

But Artemis calls them in a

voice of low note, telling them

sadly that the gods have no weight;

for this earth has been taken,

and their garden disturbed,

and their land that was plenty

will soon be no more.

 

Then a wail grows up shrill as fierce 

as the wind, and the dryads cry and

and groan with great pain,

and the leaves of the trees sing sad

in discord as a chant grows louder

for the whole world to hear.

 

This is our garden, 

this is our home;

what is there left if 

the trees all be gone!

 

This is our garden, 

this is our home;

the trees are our breath,

the leaves are our gowns.

 

This is our garden, 

this is our home;

life is the forest

but death is the blade.

 

And then with the chant 

the clouds all drew near 

and blackened with sadness

and rumbled with rage;

and filled the whole sky

with flashes of light,

pouring down from above

the tears of goodnight.

 

For J. R. R. Tolkien

 

28/5/2019