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?