19 December 2012
I saw the travellers yester noon. Hugging the valleys; an air of gloom. These travellers of mist and moor Gently scratch the tight closed door.
Let us in they whisper soft, Sigh and moan as borne aloft. Carried hither, carried there, Without a hope, without a care.
Weary travellers, swept along Listen close, I hear their song. Lands I know to be far away Places haunted by the fey.
Elves that dance the summer out, Pixies laugh and goblins shout. Elves that dance the winter in, On mountain tops where air is thin.
The travellers know the places high Where humble earth greets haughty sky. They dream of times now long past No more tethered to the grass.
To be as free as once before, Dancing on a distant shore.
I watched them pass, Their pace so slow Their journey's end? Only they shall know.
(Inspired by the low mist in the valleys on an overcast, grey, Monday.)
The Travellers • Opuss № I