The Shire

Khuzd Belkul ended our second leg of our own 

Snow falls on my spuds,

It has ruined my harvest,

When will spring return?

Snow on my window,

I can not spy my neighbours,

What are they up to?

Ice lays on the ground,

I slip and slide to the pub,

I can't feel my legs!

A nice warm supper,

A hearty winters broth, Yum!

Winter can be nice!

Relaxing by fire,

Smoking in the warmth of home,

This is not so bad...

It had been another quiet night in Brightdown. Popski stood beside the large village gate his lantern swinging in his hand. He waited until the last rays of the sun had begun to disappear below the hills before turning to slowly close the gate. In the old days it had been locked with a large iron key but now it was merely closed at night. This was mainly because the Shire was such a quiet safe place to live that folks rarely locked even their own front doors, but it was also because the key had been lost by a drunken Gate Keeper many years before.

Popski walked the short distance from his front door to the large Oak tree that overhung the gate to Brightdown village. It was under the great sweeping arms of this Oak that he usual took shelter if the rain was heavy or the sun too hot. Popski had heard tales when he was a small child of great trees that walked and spoke to one another in a language of their own making.