December 31, 2004

The wind stirred gently
about his cloak
as the man’s grey eyes
watched the morning mist.

A thin silver torc
rested about his throat
to pair with the band
of fine silver at his wrist.

A cup of mulled ale
warmed his old hand,
his grey head bowed down
low to catch the scent.

He dreamed back through his
long years in this land.
Countless they numbered.
So much had each meant.

An aged mind flew back
to ages long past,
to see the faces,
hear the voices all but gone,

to once again find
palaces in realms vast
where he had been lord
of much—had been strong.

Soon visions passed
and he drew up his staff.
Of all things he had
loved so much, then,

the best loved was
by waters’ cool lap
at first light, to dream
and greet his beloved land.


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