A little man small and round
Hairy feet padding the ground.
A puff of smoke rising high
From wooden pipe with a sigh.
Content at home he sits pleased,
Hobbit at home and at ease.
Not yet knowing what will show,
Knocking upon the round door,
Crashing into the kitchen,
Voices rumbling, boots kicking.
Tumbling inside; with full beards
Cascading like mountains feared.
And the old man, wizened, tall,
Coming to Bilbo’s apall.
Then there’ll be the dark cave;
Shivering, blinded, but brave,
He’ll speak loudly to one who
Dwells in dark. Eyes will undo
His nerve, glowing like saucers
Stealing all Bilbo’s courage.
And there’ll be the huge trolls
Fiercely unconquerable.
His knees will knock each other.
Supposedly the burglar,
He should be brave, quick and sly,
But all along he’ll feel shy,
Clumsy as an elephant,
Small as a child. But inside,
He is bigger than his hide.
He knows not yet: The light wins,
The cave trolls turn to stone men,
And the light will one day come
To one hidden in the gloom.