A fairer than most birth-day
It is my
birth-day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
True-silver,
the dawn,
light-leaf
shimmering
in the grey,
sky-lake
clouds,
tattered pink
drifting
and giving way
to a brass'd
and
fleeted summer
Sun.
Later,
fog-wisps
yet lying
chill
in dips and
hollows,
my feet find
the narrow
curve
of the road,
its face dark with
the wet cling
of frost,
crystal dew-gems,
(like a drift of autumn snow-arrows)
lying upon lace-puzzle spider webs.
I shall walk
very far
this day;
so far, I imagine,
that the stars
shall rise
and sing
within the velvet catch-bowl
of the sky
before ever
I turn towards
Home.
The night air
will be sweet and heavy
with Harvest,
the wind warm
with the slightest
salt of the Sea,
the sharpness of it
like a secret
unfolding in
the midnight
strike of a clock.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At the last, I stand
upon the crown of
the Hill,
the jewel'd finery of night
winking and
captured above me,
the soft amber-gold
of tallow-fat candles
beckoning below....
Like a friendly hand upon
a wanderer's strayed arm,
these kindly lights,
like Spring days and Summer nights,
like safe-within-Winter.
And I turn to Home,
my feet finding the familiar way,
road-dust rising fine
and autumn-leaf scented
about me,
smooth-limbed trees
unmoving
beneath my touch,
.
yellow-yolked Moon
pulling
sleep-cloaked song
from hidden thistle-birds.
The round door closes behind me,
hinges
lightly heralding the season's change.
I smile and touch it,
as if it were a beloved face
I should not like to forget.
So many things to touch,
to love,
to remember,
on this,
my birth-day.
September 22, 1420, S.R.**
____________________________
**this extraordinary year, in which the devastated Shire was renewed,
was called "The Great Year of Plenty". It was also the last year
Frodo celebrated his birthday at Bag End.
