.
Eyes as big as night,
wet with tears.
A quickening storm.
A light burns bright
on the horizon.
A signal fire
guiding us home.
Weary hearts,
and minds struggling.
From the plains,
through the swamp.
We lost good people
in the morass,
and the muskeg.
Those who couldn’t see
their way though.
Never thought that it might end.
That landscape,
an endless quagmire.
We were almost unprepared
for the solid ground
of the foothills.
Now,
we arrive home.
Thin as the willows,
and musty as old poplar.
Creatures of a forsaken land,
weary of the journey.
Almost wraiths
in this November fog.
Gazes fixed
upon that fire
in the distance.
We find another step
in our procession.
Home is a wonderful thing.
There is no survival
without it.
.
.
DJR – 2023
