Walking on a foreign shore,
Mist intermingling with each breath,
A traveler can’t understand
How at home he feels.
With no next moment,
And nothing more distant than
His own beating heart,
An ancient welcome envelops him.
His breath, a high C held aloft,
His feet rising from a bed of sand,
The waves approaching and bowing,
He remembers why he’s come.
Without a moment that
Is galloping into expectations
Or dissolving into what is no more,
The world knows itself in him.
With no-one grabbing hold
Of close by or far away,
Caring dips her ladle and
Fills each brimming cup.
They don’t know how they got here,
But the living and the dead show up.
Perhaps they are part of each of us,
Who never stop wishing them well.