The Dying Light of The Sun

The traveller slows, tired of the road, tired of each footfall and rise,

The weariness grows, the weight of the load, puts an ache in road weary thighs,

Each mile that has passed, from the first to the last, has been conquered one step at a time,

And each hard won goal, has taken it's toll, and now he must rest, must recline.

 

He'd measured his gait, he'd shouldered his weight, he'd pushed on when all had said, "Stop."

He'd strengthened his will, at the crest of each hill, and negotiated each drop,

With his stave in his hand, he'd wandered this land, each turn, each junction, each bend,

At this end of the line, it was finally time, to relent and admit journeys end.

 

So heavy of limb, in the dull evening dim, he knew no more steps could be done,

And there in that land, he took time to stand and take in the last of the Sun,

And here with a smile, he stood for a while, and watched for the close of the day,

The path had been long, some footfalls placed wrong, but he'd managed to stay on his way.

 

And now at the end, he did not bow or bend, but held himself upright and straight,

Though his will to drive on, had now withered and gone, he would stand straight and wait for his fate,

He had given his best, now at last he could rest, could relent and say it was done,

Could give thanks for his time, and in comfort recline, in the dying light of the Sun.

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