A Hobbit's Bedtime Story
It was not so long ago that I was a lad.
Not so long ago that I should not remember
how it was, of an evening.
I never did wish to sleep, you know,
I liked the mysterious dark wood of my bed,
dark like the very sky itself,
and the solitary star
on the board just above my head.
Oftimes, Da would smoke his pipe
upon the bench beside the door.
He did not blow smoke-rings like Uncle,
nor tell tales of the wide world, like Gandalf.
The day would turn from sleepy-gold
and we would sit quiet. .
When the song-bird that nested in the hedge
spoke to the hour's lateness with a solitary
we'd go in, Da's hand warm about mine.
My nightshirt would be by the fire.
If I were too sleepy (and not dirty enough!) for a wash,
Mumma's hands would slip it over my head,
the length of it enfolding me just like her arms
when she rocked me as a babe.
Then she tucked me up close in my little bed,
as close as if she held me to her own heart.
And as my mind stumbled, caught somewhere between
golden candle-glow and dreams, flying from Skye to Sea,
her voice, beautiful as any crystal stream,
gave me stories.
And now, I have given one to you.
Good-night, my dear, and good dreams.