11

The Wanderer

Autumn's gold has rusted in the fog

And trees stand damply waiting for the frost

To strip away the few remaining leaves.

Quiet melancholy silences the cost

Of darkness, scattering the hopes of ease,

The distant memory of bright yule logs,

Shared feasts and friendly faces in the glow

Of fire or tallow flames, where warmth was more

Than sitting near the hearth.  I am alone -

As lifeless as the drift-wood on the shore -

No kin alive, no place to call my own,

No love survived to let my spirit grow.

          Where can I turn when all I had is lost

          And thought can only serve to count the cost?

Brian Hick 28.11.22

©copyright Sally Hick 28.11.22