The train clings to the hills,
as if for safety,
as we wind
through the mist
northwards.

A gap in the clouds
presents
a brooding prospect:
our destination,
shrowded by mountains,
girt by watery wastelands,
embraced by a glowery darkness
and lashed
by relentless, oppressive rain.

Are homecomings really like this?
Or is our inner vision, our bright remembrance,
given way to private grief?

07/18/2005