The Traveller

Because the road is often rough

And the rewards hard-won,

The traveller grows weary

By the setting of the sun.

^^^^^^

Because the way is littered

With hearts and minds of stone,

The traveller must pick his way

Though footsore and alone.

^^^^^^

And I am of the travellers

And I have wearied much

And, near despair, have cried out

For the comfort of a touch.

^^^^^^

And then have I continued

To meet the journey’s end,

Content that I have found myself

Reflected – in a friend.