Poetry "Tom Turns in for the Winter"

[KnightFluttershy]

I wrote this poem a few years ago.




Tree boughs were turning bare, the North Wind Was Biting,
As Old Tom Bombadil a Candle was a-lighting.
He placed a feather in his hat, he said farewell to Goldberry,
Tom stepped out of his door, red and cold and merry.
As the winds began to moan, His candle grew much dimmer,
"Hey now! Flicker flame, there's not cause
to shimmer!
Steadfast, glowing bright, As the sun you will be,
You will keep lit my way, And be my guide," said he.
As Tom hopped down the path by the Withywindle,
He spied old badger-brock, beneath a bush
of hazel.
"Ho, there! Badger-brock! You should not be waking!
With your wife and kits, your beds you should be making!"
Said Old Badger-Brock, Eyes wide with sorrow,
"We shan't go back just yet, With a serpent in our burrow!"
Tom skipped down to the set, He peered in, stooped down low,
There lay diamond-back, With gleaming eyes in shadow.
"Old Tom! Fat Tom! Shouldn't poke his nose
in!
If he tries to push me out, a swift bite I'll give him!"
"Ho-there! Diamond-back! This is not your homestead.
The family of Badger-Brock have claimed it for their own bed!

Go now and leave this place, for homes you aren't a-lacking,
Go and lay your weary head, Under leaves or trees or bracken!"
Old serpent rushed away, grumbling all the while,
He said farewell to Badger-brock and left
him with a smile.
Tom pulled down his hat as snow began to billow,
And through the screaming wind came the voice of Old Man Willow.
"Ha, Tom Bombadil! Tried to catch me unaware?
My golden leaves have not been shed, my branches are not yet bare!"
"It's time to go to sleep again, Old Man Willow,
The loam-mat shall be your bed, the Forest leaves your pillow!
lose now vour aniden erown the cold
winds are a-moaning,
Not 'till spring will you be muttering or groaning!"
Willow-man's leaves were bare, but then the snow and hail
Quenched Tom's flicker-flame, His candle, cold and pale.

Tom pushed forward, though the wind was biting,
Until he heard the cruel-sharp sound, Of ancient chains a-rattling!
"Poor Tom Bombadil! Caught out in a snow-storm!
Should have slept through the night, Should have risen with the morn!
Barrow-Wight is back again, he's left his ring of stones behind,
To see the end of Bombadil,
By the breath of The Old North Wind!"
Tom began to shut his eyes to sounds of hollow laughter,
He knew not when he'd wake or what he would see after...
Old Tom Bombadil woke upon his pillow, Free from snow and free from Wight,
No sign of Old Man Willow.
"Now let the song begin, we shall now sing yet again,
Of rushing streams and babbling brooks, Of rising larks and pheasant hens!
Merry chirping avocets, wading through the old fens,
The tapping of the woodpecker, the flitting of the warbling wren!"
For there, at home, was Goldberry,
Clearer than the water, Rescuer of Bombadil, River-Woman's Daughter."