Exile Poem by Roy Ballard

How black the winter seems despite the snow
but when you stood beside me, took my hand,
the journey ended that has far to go
for we are going to a far off land.
I dwell where you are, there I make my place,
beside a mountain or the shifting sea,
a foreign palace or the commonplace,
if you are there my home it comes to be.
My home is not made up of mortar, brick and tile,
it's where we walk in kind tranquillity;
it's where you give me hand and heart and smile.
Clouds hang upon our mountains once so clear
but skies are bright whenever you are near.