Memory

There is a place where clouds scramble,
Hungry to swallow vale and wood, and I,
Lost spaces and memories in misty bramble,
Cool as death, as a life lost in a sky,
Without stars.

And in pointless wanderlust, feet shuffle,
Like a vagabond stream without water bed,
Shades of shrines suggest, and voices muffle
A troth, a truth, that has long been unsaid,
Without voice.

Suffer the soul that can't remember its warmth,
Blythe to the longing that leads to praise.
A presence in pace walks through the glomth,
In death, in communion, in life, will raise,
Without scorn.

And a dream or a memory of a place never seen,
Dispels and displaces the ghostly horizon,
And places, and people, as breath into gene,
Retells the story as the grace will emblazon,
With friendship.