Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Caverns, a poem


Legends they tell,
where the dwarfs dwell,
of fires that well
from the hearths of Hell.

There chains of gold
were forged of old,
to bind, to hold,
in caverns cold,

where the dwarfs dwell.


In secret mines
a captive pines;
and the runic lines
form mystic signs

to tell her tale.
A whisper, a wail,
all voices fail —
doomed and pale

a captive pines.


In caverns deep
the hours creep;
to wake from sleep
means but to weep,

caught in this spell.
Does a distant bell
their passing tell?
Within her cell,

the hours creep.


The clamor, hark,
in caverns dark;
an anvil spark,
a dwarf-smith, stark,

to his tasks settles,
he casts, he fettles
his magic metals,
the crystal kettles

in caverns dark.


None know what befell,
where the dwarfs dwell;
the hammer’s knell
would rise and swell

on the fetid air,
a song of despair
for the captive fair,
beyond all care

where the dwarfs dwell.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

I consider this a very rough draft of an idea and it will almost certainly see changes and/or expansion. It will most likely appear in an upcoming novel, if I can find an excuse to slip it in!

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