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.