For the lost

In fog’s night,
there’s a shimmer.
A hint of hearth and home.
A muted invitation
to one who walks alone.

Far away from native shore
and succor of the soul.
Harbouring a longing for
the things that make us whole.

Fishing for remembrances
of paintings in the mind,
but finding only semblances
in images unkind.

And now they come, in elder times,
these showings of a land.
So often gleaned from ancient rhymes
that lead us by the hand.

As if to say this life of yours
is wanting for its bed,
so be untroubled, free of chores,
and rest your weary head.

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