Like a homing pigeon,
To this place,
It was meant for this time,
All through the years it had waited for me,
And I for it,
Though far distant, connected
By some silken strand,
And now, in my time of sorrow and weeping,
In my darkest of all nights,
The evening of my life,
I return to meditate, to think, and to pray,
While the wood pigeons call,
And the rowan fruits, splashing its blood red berries in darkening sky,
Standing timeless,
Guarding the souls that have gone before,
Passed this way,
As I did too,
In the darkened night,
I remember,
And laugh,
And weep,
For what has gone
And never can be again.

Always this place was home,
I returned here again and again,
In darkest nights of childhood,
When my world rocked
In time with the boat shaped swings at the fairground
In the cold of the night
As together we swung dizzily
From high to low, low to high,
Face turned up to the sky,
Seeing stars,
Squealing with joy,
Tinged with fear.

And now,
My world again is marked by joy,
Tinged with fear,
My dark night has come again,
My world is rocked,
I know not which way it will go,
Up or down, or maybe both all at once,
For now I am blind,
Now my steps are halting,
Balance gone,
And in the chaos of cancer,
I find peace here,
In the place I call home,
Under the sturdy rowan tree

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