This is another standalone poem from my linked series, a work in progress, poems written around the theme of the weather.
Please don’t ask me when the whole thing might be completed!
Bilbo in the Breeze
Tonight, there is no moon,
But I hear dry leaves,
Swirling and clattering on the path.
Fingers brushing my cheek,
Cold breath on my face.
Leaves, dry leaves,
Flung into the air and a voice,
A spiteful, hissing voice,
Whispering in my ear:
‘What has it got in its pocketses?’
There are nasty, cold fingers
Poking and prying around my pocket.
I feel a tug at my jacket,
A sudden push in my back.
I jam my hands in my pockets
To warm them and keep the nasty fingers out.
My fingers touch…
What have I got in my pocket?