She comes to him,
They walk together.
Through the dusky evening,
Past fields of heather.
She takes his hand,
Her fingers cold,
She starts to lead him,
Both gently and bold.
Soon the pass,
A playing boy,
Enraptured by,
Some simple toy.
Shortly, they pass,
An old country church,
Lovingly surrounded,
By a stand of birch.
Full of lights,
The windows shine,
While in the steeple,
The church bells chime.
Down the steps,
Carpeted wholely in red,
New bride and groom,
Joyously tread.
On they go,
At the end of the day,
Still his hand in hers,
As she leads the way.
They next pass by,
A tiny cemetery,
He sheds a tear,
To his wife in memory.
Finally, they come,
To the end of their travel,
His nerves just now,
Begin to unravel.
She smiles at him,
And pats his hand,
She whispers softly,
"No fear, no pain in this next land."
"She's waiting there,
For you to be."
He takes her hand,
Most happily.
Through the mist,
They both do walk,
The peace he feels,
Is quite a shock.
There she is,
He runs to greet,
Tight hug and kiss,
When they meet.
He says to her,
As he takes her hand,
"It truly is,
The promised land."
This may be the longest poem that I've ever written. To my parents, I know you are together.
