The fellowship of the ring
The fellowship of the ring
He was an Englishman
On a bus in New Zealand
Lost in the world
Drifting around
Trying to rekindle interest
In something other than nothing.
People were excited about Hobbits
Which was weird
He knew that if they were anywhere
It was in the home counties
A quaint village in the Cotswolds
Glastonbury Tor
Salisbury Plain
Taunton
Tintagel
Pembroke Castle
Not in Hobbiton of all places
The bus was alive with chatter
The laughter of Gandalf
Sir Ian took some beating
In King Lear
Shakespeare would have laced
The story with even more fire
And brimstone
Hubble bubble
Toil and trouble
In a world of stereotypes
Loud Americans
Tartan shorts
An Englishman full of gripes
Counting sheep
To stay awake
The bus pitched up at a cafe
From the fifties
Afternoon tea
In the spirit of Bilbo
With ham and cheese sandwiches
Wrapped in cling film
Or glad wrap
It was all the same
It looked certain
The arrangement
On the counter
Had stood since
Tolkien was alive
Plastic tablecloths
And proper builders' tea
In plastic cups
He wondered where the bikers were
The leather jackets
Elvis quiffs
A jukebox in the corner
Playing “All Shook Up.”
He could have sworn
He had been in this same cafe
On the A1 in the sixties
It reminded him of the Blue Boar
Rock bands in Transit vans
Formica tables
Camp coffee with chicory
Rouge and too-red lipstick
On powdered faces
Below bouffant hairstyles
Made of concrete
From a time before food and good service
Was invented.
How disappointing it was
To be eleven thousand miles
Away from home
But just one step away
From where he started.
But this was a fellowship
The staff were warm and big-hearted
Welcoming in a bluff
West country way
He was transported
Across continents
Everything was the same
Nothing was different
Unless acted upon
By an internal force
He knew the truth in that
He could choose to be discreet
It was why he boarded a bus
In New Zealand
And got off in South Wales
It was all about attitude
And the constancy of
Change
It really was.