No one would know that it was there
were it not for some ripples in the lea
and not a breeze the blame to bear.
Far from the shelter of shrub and tree,
waited on by mallow and meadowsweet,
it feasted there like a Roman grandee.
The slender muzzle of the young doe
plucked choosily from the grassy mere,
oblivious of watchers close - friend or foe.
While the sun trailed off into the fragrant eve,
all at once the place was graced with an air
of Arda unmarred - sweet, but, oh so brief.