Driving home from Morwell,
mind inhobbited.
Strong wind warning has not yet reached
cumulus-culmination
instead sky wields steely axeheads.
We scud ahead of the burrija*
swirling her black ruffled mantle
just one more piece of flurried debris
swept forward
by theatrical Victorian mourning.
I am assimilating movie.
Forging synapses.
The brooding storm-bruise cloak
has been stowed,
peripheral to more extraordinary images.

I see Smaug.
His red, rampaging tantrum of revenge
for being woken.
I see Galadriel.
Her dark unleashing of strobing power,
unanticipated tenderness.
But most of all I see
strong, bow brow, fine-drawn, generous lips,
determined line of jaw -
all softened by dissolving grief,
framed by burnished hair, sensibly plaited,
still shocked and doubting -
Tauriel
whom Tolkien did not foresee

whose love is now
more
than

haunting me.

*burrija = Slovenian for extreme winds referred to as Bora. In the valley where my mother was born, the winds are notorious. You will see heavy slate roofs weighted down further by large rocks.

http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/36400000/Tauriel-image-tauriel-36489133-1800-978.jpg