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Description
"ROOTFOOT"

Since ages past, the old forests his home,
Seeking the old ones, as he does roam.
Slowly, quietly, patiently, he lives,
Tender care, to the trees, he gives.
Ever searching for those who will hear,
The old ways, what they mean, listeners are rare.
"Who will care when he no longer wanders,
who will tend the saplings?", he sadly ponders.
Tired and travel weary, he sits to rest,
On the stump of his old friend Willowcrest.
Sadly he thinks, "Am I the last?
Has the time of my kind, come and past?
Is there none to take my place?
Will we vanish without a trace?
While I can move and speak, I must go,
There must be more, I've got to know,
If perchance, I really am the last,
I'll tend the forests 'til my days too have past.
I must move on, I've been here too long,
Sitting on this stump, just seems wrong."
Slowly he rises, stiffly he moves away,
Sap in his eyes, his branches sway.
As he steps, he moans an old, old rhyme,
His slow determined steps, keep time.
Perhaps he's the last of his kind,
But it's others, which, occupy his mind.
Into the old forests, Rootfoot went,
slowly, quietly, patiently, his time near spent.
Oh young sapling, please give heed,
Compared to his age, you are merely a seed.
If he comes your way stop and hasten,
As wisely he speaks, attentively listen.
Slowly, quietly, patiently, it's time well spent,
Learn well from this tired old Ent.

Written by D R Hartle

FOR PRINTS! Go here... [link]

Description
"ROOTFOOT"

Since ages past, the old forests his home,
Seeking the old ones, as he does roam.
Slowly, quietly, patiently, he lives,
Tender care, to the trees, he gives.
Ever searching for those who will hear,
The old ways, what they mean, listeners are rare.
"Who will care when he no longer wanders,
who will tend the saplings?", he sadly ponders.
Tired and travel weary, he sits to rest,
On the stump of his old friend Willowcrest.
Sadly he thinks, "Am I the last?
Has the time of my kind, come and past?
Is there none to take my place?
Will we vanish without a trace?
While I can move and speak, I must go,
There must be more, I've got to know,
If perchance, I really am the last,
I'll tend the forests 'til my days too have past.
I must move on, I've been here too long,
Sitting on this stump, just seems wrong."
Slowly he rises, stiffly he moves away,
Sap in his eyes, his branches sway.
As he steps, he moans an old, old rhyme,
His slow determined steps, keep time.
Perhaps he's the last of his kind,
But it's others, which, occupy his mind.
Into the old forests, Rootfoot went,
slowly, quietly, patiently, his time near spent.
Oh young sapling, please give heed,
Compared to his age, you are merely a seed.
If he comes your way stop and hasten,
As wisely he speaks, attentively listen.
Slowly, quietly, patiently, it's time well spent,
Learn well from this tired old Ent.

Written by D R Hartle

FOR PRINTS! Go here... [link]