A Visit to Hobbiton

- jan-u-wine

When I am older,
I shall have my own pony.

Already, I know
which one he will be:

black as ink'd night
with a star-blaze
upon his forehead,

mane like moon-silvered
wheat.

He is the one who runs
wild

in the deep grasses of the summer field,
he
is the one whose soft nose nudges
apple bits from my hands....

Silmë shall be his name.
and 

we shall come here,
riding slow upon the road.

Uncle
(though, really, he
IS my cousin),
will think me quite grown.

But for now,
I sit beside him,

cart-robes piled over,
under,

around us,
the Road unrolling 
like a dark ribbon
under the autumn night-sky.

As if they were silver, pouring from his purse,
he counts the stars for me:

Earendil.

I know him:

The mariner,
gem'd prow
dancing upon the face of night.

Borgil:

fire-eyed,
flaring and winking,

Luinel:

blue-crystal shadows
flickering

like ice crafted of rimed flame.

All these he names for me,
and tells me how they came
to be set within the great
expanse of the sky....

And
I think on them,
'til sleep takes me,

the little frogs
and cricket-fiddles
leading me to dreams.... 

When I wake,
it is not to my bed,
all carved about with moon and stars,

or mumma's soft voice and kiss upon my brow.

It is to Uncle's eyes,
and griddle-cakes with bright yellow butter….

it is to tales of gold and adventures,
of dragons and dwarves….

It is to a tree whose very roots

burrow and shine like welcoming arms
above my head.

I can scarce breathe for the wonder of it all.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Uncle has a surprise:

it is his birthday, too.

He wonders aloud
how we should spend
our day.

And I wonder
(within the small frame of my thoughts),

how I might tell him

I love him.