A grizzled old man with a pointed, worn cap,
With a slightly bent back and the reins in his lap,
Rides on his cart toward a tucked away place,
Moving along at a leisurely pace.
Greenery lines the old weathered road,
Well-tilled earth all around being carefully sown.
Of the countless places in all Middle Earth,
To him the Shire is of the most worth.
A puff of his pipe and a breath of fresh air,
Calm him as soft wind flows through his hair.
Now over the bridge and past the old mill,
On his way to a home built into a hill.
The vast party tree now within his sight,
He lets go a smile and his heart is light.
He gazes about the serene little town,
And soaks in the colors; the deep greens and browns.
He steps off his cart, now at journey’s end,
To knock on the door of his very old friend.