Prodigal

You have wandered the earth
for a hundred years
childless and sainted,
with a chalice in hand,
and finding in a valley
one swollen night
the mythic town
you dreamed of in childhood,
and finding in a valley
chrushed rose and bourbon,
foxbrush and chocolatewood
and angelos in the brambles,
your searched for firelight,
your wifing candle there
with a hand of light
laid on your dropping arm,
finding those with surety
as a blind cadenza lands
its one ancestral chord,
you fall giddily among
a few drowsy insects
and kiss the earth
amongst their glow
and let out a noise
that has been finding
its way back to you
through some winter
on some dark night
some river –