Hello my friends and welcome to 2015!
I’d like to wish you a very Happy New Year wherever you are reading this in the world. The end of december is quite full of holidays as yearly periods go, so if you celebrated the Winter/Summer Solstice, Christmas, Pancha Ganapati, Hanukkah, Hogswatch, Sadeh, or just the plain old Yule Festival, I hope you had a lovely holiday period!
One big event for me, here in Brisbane was the release of The Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies on the 26th of December. The film was fantastic and a review will be forthcoming when the extended edition is released but for now I’ve got a small poem to honour the real star of this series:
“Oh friends and foes, beware beware!
This fearsome feind will singe your hair!
Yes, eyebrows, britches, bootses too,
If you don’t look out he might singe you!
Ah, blackened ash in a pile you’ll be
But we won’t laugh long as Smaug flies free.
In the face of his might all others pale
Sharp teeth all a-gnashing, skin made of mail
The dragon was fearsome, no not much fun
From his roar and his flame whole cities did run.
But fear not my child, safe we now are
For Smaug now slumbers deep in mountain afar.
Yes, lonely they call it but many give thanks
For the mountain keeps him from stretching his shanks.
He lies in there ”mongst treasures untold
There for the taking, if ye be bold
So talk men do, all boasts and foolery
Imagining their share in bright gold and jewelry.
Sleep he does? Perhaps he is dead?
Just to check, why not cut off his head?
But I warn you now, if the dragon be wake,
All will tremble in fear and burn shall the lake
So harken now child, give me your ear,
Don’t waken the worm, don’t take the chance, do you hear?
Sleep he long has and sleep he will yet,
Drifting in dreams from which we hope he’ll never let.
But whatever they promise you in silver or gold
Nothing is worth the life that you hold
So don’t be a fool and remember the words of your da
Your life is worth more than any riches by far.”
Baran put down the book, it’s cover faded and torn from years of wear. Despite the love given to the old tome, or perhaps because of it, the book was falling apart. The young guardsman of Esgaroth (or Lake Town as people called it) made a note to take it down to the tanner and the scribe and get the leather refurbished, the words traced over with new ink. It might cost a bit, but it was worth it for such an heirloom. He stood up from his son’s bed, straightening the covers over the young boy, sleep dragging his eyelids closed.
“Night da.” he whispered before he slipped into unconsciousness. Baran looked out the window above his son’s bed as the moonlight played upon the canals of lake-town, his worry-filled eyes drawn to the mountain above. But sat cold and silent, no blaze, no roar and Baran dropped his eyes to his son’s sleeping figure once more.
“Goodnight Bard.” he whispered.