Rugged wheels touch glistening runway
Pale traveller finds ground once more
With keys in hand, I turn for home.

Damp wind streams through naked boughs
Fiendish breeze whips up the waters
Watchful crows cavort in the air.

Scribbled cloud obscures creamy light
Sombre hills cower beneath leaden skies
Ancient land lies in cold repose.

Heavy trucks pepper mud on screen
Miserable procession winds its way south
Time passes through rain-soaked towns.

I turn the corner to a familiar scene
Meet wide-eyed children with wide-open minds
And a relieved smile from my patient love.

It’s good to be home.

December, 2004