Weskits and Waistcoats

- jan-u-wine

Gaffer never held with finery.
'Frippery' he'd call it,
and hold to plain ways for plain folk.

He's gone now,
 
Gaffer is....

gone these many years,

and 
I wander,
sometimes,
and seek him 
in my thoughts, 

him and his earthy ways.

I wager he would not
have
approved

the strange parts
where now you dwell

and would have wondered
(in that loud wondering
he had) 

why
you'd a need for any Home 
outside the one you'd got.

Even now,
when the harvest sun paints
its dying fire
upon the floor,
even now,

so many years since you went 
where I could not follow,

I wonder the same thing.

Not as if I don't know the answer.

I know it,
as sure as I know 
that the Sun rises in the East

and

the Moon and Stars take their ease
in the West.

It is not too fine a place,
is it,

for your Samwise?

Not too fine a hope,
nor too far a dream,

that we might meet again.
 
And so,
I pull the plain memory of you
about me,

tucked tight 
sewn by time

held fast
within a not-so-plain
waist-coat.
 
A weskit, gaffer would call it,
and wonder (again, loudly)
where I'd got it and 

what
was its use.

Daft.
 
He would call my answer,
my

words,
daft..

 
'Tisn't a weskit, Da.
Nor yet even a waistcoat.
 
'Tis life,
life
plain
and
simple.

Life,
and the gentle 
hope


thereof.