Characters: Denethor, Finduilas
Disclaimer: Not mine, merely borrowed.
She is accustomed to seeing him write for hours, smiling with satisfaction; so it is unusual to see him so frustrated, writing and scratching and writing; then crumpling the paper and tossing it aside. What is it that disturbs him so?
“It’s a form of poetry, quite different from anything we write. Seventeen syllables, in a specific pattern: five, seven, five. I just can not get mine to work …bother! How do they do it?”
She smoothes the wadded paper with her hand, and reads:
The sea breeze carries
Whispers of spring, to gladden
My lady’s grey eyes
“Count again, love.”