Down the Withywindle...

... bobbing and drifting, a boat of a hat with a swan-feather sail comes to rest among water-lilies. Buttercups lie scattered on the bank. Sleep, says Tom Bombadil, oldest and fatherless. Sleep, Willow-man. Sleep, Badger-folk under briars. Sleep, Barrow-dwellers in buried gold.

... sunlight spilling over pebbles in translucent rills unfurls into hair...

Sleep, water-rat and finny fish. Tom’s come a-courting...

“... a-courting?” says Goldberry, arising lily-clad among lilies.

Tom leaps up. “Here’s my pretty maiden!” he cries. “Hey now, River-daughter!”

A scaly sheen glimmers silver through the layered leaves of her skin-slick gown. She finger-combs her flowing hair and smiles at him.

“Whither are you going, Tom?” she says. “Who do you come courting?”

He says, “I met a fair young maiden once...”

“A merry meeting that was!” says Goldberry, her laughter rippling like a trout-filled brook. “‘You bring my feather-hat back again!’ and ‘Sleep below the willow-roots, little water-lady!’ And when I swam back to my mother’s house, then you would not follow. No!”

She plucks the hat from the water-lilies. “Do you bring me this?” she says. “Is it a courting-gift?”

“I shall bring lilies,” says Tom Bombadil. “Green leaves and lilies white –”

“I have lilies here,” says Goldberry.

The hat sits oddly on her yellow tresses. Tom says, “Nay then, I shall heap the table under Hill with honeycomb and berries, white bread and herbs! On soft pillows you shall lay your pretty head –”

Goldberry yawns, sharp-toothed. “Shall I swim in starlight, under Hill?”

“The hearth is warm,” says Tom, “and the lamps are bright.”

“The Moon is brighter,” says Goldberry, sinking back. “Peace! White bread and bedding to court a river-maiden? Away with you, Tom!”

“Fisher Blue’s feathers! Old Barrow-wight’s gold!”

Laughter bubbles between lily-leaves. Goldberry vanishes with a splash, taking his feather-hat with her.

Down comes the rain.

It spills over the willow-branches trailing their green tips curiously through silver rills, hammers interlaced roots and the water-lilies tossed by a turbulent torrent. Raindrops dance madly across the swirling river. The heavens are heavy with clouds, awash with thunder. Bulrushes bow and sway to the pounding of storm-drums.

Deep in the deepest hollow, Goldberry coils herself, silver-scaled, into her mother's calm root-cupped pools. Her new toy sails serenely through hair unfurling gold in clear water.

Tom's come a-courting...

... laughter bubbling, she plucks the swan-feather from his hat. For who'd be wife to such a husband?

Old Tom Bombadil sits sighing by the Withywindle...

‘Old’ they call him even now, but he will be older, so much older: now he is young, as young as the spring and the dawn, which is as young as it can be, since the Sun herself is only a few seasons old... how many, Tom forgets, but only a handful, no more than could be gathered into his weathered palm... he saw her rise. He saw the white Moon come up before her, and the Sun rising after, and her brilliance swimming in the brown lazy depths of the river at its deepest. He laughed his merry laugh and went away through the woods, shaking his head over the grandeur of it all, and the madness. The world may change and change again and old Tom Bombadil shall still be young, for what has he to do with any of this? Great is his heart, light is his head. He cares only for his own concerns.

All around weep the willows, bending under blackened skies. The wind wails in the woods, whips up waves from the river. Such a torrent! such a storm! How it tosses the lilies and the rushes. How it stirs the deep pools...

Goldberry will not come. She coils deep under the bank in the calmest of hollows, awaiting the passing of the storm. Then she will dart out again, then dress herself in lily-leaves and sing water-songs in the rushes, then her tresses will ripple golden, bright as sunlight streaming over pebble-beds. Then she will tease him, then she will leap up and tug at his beard, his brown hair. Then she will show her teeth and laugh.

Old Tom heaves a heavy sigh. If only, he thinks, if only she may still have his hat!