How long since these outward turning tides,
since these eyes held your hands in the night.
Their feeling subsists and then soon subsides,
and still their wilderness remains, unbroken.
Now we await for the weary traveler's might,
to reside for a lifetime and some small token.
You are the word and you become the pages,
you remain the ambition and the silent drive.
You become the song for their awaiting ages,
like so many my muse come and gone before.
They are written, forgotten, yet they survive,
until their world remembers them no more.
Like some ghost, who does not soon forget,
the poet and plunderers forge her immortal
Their wagers are placed but for him, not yet,
she transcends hours, and pauses for no man.
He would subsist beyond their secret portal,
for a dream and hopes of some unmade plan.
Still does their rain come and go, undaunted,
as fearless as a mountain, scored from danger.
Soon their invention might melt, so vaunted,
before her heart so like the storm and as wild.
He would meet her again and like a stranger,
with all that gallant innocent youth of a child.
Brian Francis Hudon
January 10, 2013