Going Home

It’s late at night, its bitter cold, it’s time to leave my post and head for home-
Turn out the light, the shades are rolled, but I think unlike most- I’ll write a poem.

The winds are strong, the sky is clear, there’s much that I may see along the way-
I move along, with songs I hear, tomorrow will just be another day.

Yet in my mind, in time gone by, there was a chance that I could speak to you.
So still I find, but can’t say why, a dream of romance gently poking through.

I’m weaving down an empty road and always keep my eyes out for the deer-
Till through my town I bring my load of poems that will surprise the few who hear.

When home at last, my body fed, and chores all done so I can get some sleep-
I hold on fast to what you said- that I’m the one you always want to keep.

For that’s the dream, that true or no- I find my heart is ever beating for-
Yes just a gleam- a chance to show- that we can’t part- it’s you that I adore.

I write the words, I shed a tear, for there’s my soul all spread out on the page-
It soars like birds, for all to hear- each lover’s goal now said for every age.

John H. Bidwell