13 October 3018. Frodo Crosses the Bridge.
The road narrows here.
The three-arched bridge lies before us.
On this side and that the heath rolls bare to the sky.
Below, the water rushes; our feet echo.
Far off a hawk wheels against the sun.
Rain-washed and sweet the wind is singing
Of the hills and heather.
The wind singing and the hawk’s high thin cry,
The water foaming below. We still our voices.
We have crossed from all we knew.
The Last Bridge, three-arched.
The past. The present.