This is a poem that I wrote a couple years ago in one of my fits of whimsy. I was looking back through my poetry this morning and thought that I’d share this one today.
While I was hiding from the rain
beneath the old bridge
that spans the little river by the mill
I struck up a conversation
with the troll.
His hair was wet, damp,
musky from mold.
His voice deep and graveling,
teeth flat and gnashing.
He saw that I was cold and wet
and offered me a seat before his fire.
We talked for a while
about weather,
crops,
animal migration.
He complained of Billy Goats
with hard, wood-scuffing hooves
that raise a clangor as they cross.
We talked for hours
and drank hot tea with fresh scones.
When the rain stopped and the sun shone,
I thanked him for his kindness
and went on my way once more.
I love this poem. It should become a children’s book.
Will you illustrate it for me?