Wanderer Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

The year has drawn to a close
And the shortest day is near -
Another winter for the wanderer.

Just as the evening traveller
Nears the fireside of an inn
Only to find ruin in a cold hearth

There is no feast to enliven us -
Not even wild grain and mallows
For wasteland gruels and stews.

Having made haste on the highway,
The river has swept away the ford -
Turning back, the roads are longer.

We sleep finally under the sky
And our solo lifetime journey
Passes like dust from our heels.

Vitality and decay follow in season,
Metal and stone are more enduring -
Awareness is the only true treasure.

The muted dead have gone ahead
The old graves have become fields -
Rather then look west to the new sun

And set aside some time for the record.
An archer who can pull a strong bow
Falls short of the writer of a single character.