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| Skeins of autumn geese overhead always reminded him of Bilbo.
He'd sit on the step and watch them flying,
far above, their wings beating hard against time.
And every year he wondered once again,
Just how far Bilbo had gone
before the winter snows came.
A more sensible hobbit
would have waited
for the
Spring. | |
|
| The sky of the Shire isn't half so very large,
And the sky of Rohan is a blue bowl
Set above a golden sea of fluttering grass.
Clouds, like wind made visible above,
Shadows gliding silently below them.
The world is wide.
But the clouds
are always
familiar. | |
|
| But here's a first attempt:
I dreamed a lot about coming back to the Shire.
About good Shire earth under my toes once more,
Good beer in my belly and good songs.
No Men strutting around like fat roosters.
No Hobbits afraid of other hobbits.
No Chief calling the tune.
No barren Shirref houses.
No felled trees.
No Rules.
No. | |
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