I could tell a desperation blew through Tom Bombadil’s beard
When first the wilderness said to sleep.
It said, We have no place for you, even though–even even though
He was the Speaker for the Glade, and the Way Things Were.
No more
The nature of things
The dourbark and the deadwood, the ent, dryad, and huorn,
What whistling wind wended its way about
Wan willow and winnowed whim,
A living will-o’-the-wisp what pulled Goldberry through
Hells she never spoke. His betrayal was complete, when
First the wilderness said to sleep.
His truths be shown, when touched the corona of gold,
Danced light among sunbeam, knowing full well the depth
Of cold murderous death. Sméagol’s first name was Cain.
It did not affect the wild thing in guise of man.
The river stones were so deep, when first
The wilderness said to sleep.
Everfree, not deciduous, I hold onto the season with a prayer
And who knows what Tolkien wondered when he sang the dead-
Songs to his child, who went to war when the war was won.
What world it was to survive the end, only to see the end again.
It is a promise to speak, when oak is made meek, when first the
Wilderness sang me to sleep.
Modern Fantastic 