More Poetry
Harold Whit Williams
There on the map but vague in my mind.
Blurred through the window
As we touch down in rain.
Rain like some shroud to be lifted.
A rain ancestral
And singing of pity.
This is the dream that will happen.
This is how it will all play out.
There will be seagulls
And pints of stout and my face
Around every corner.
There will be you in the air
And you on the ground.
There will be us in our cups
At the end of the bar. Sad ballads
To drink in the lingering light.
Welcome home, perfect strangers.
Welcome the heaven of peace.
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