THE PALE ROAD
The house is quiet, silent,
Except for the ticking of the big clock
At the bottom of the stairs,
Whose chimes keep company
With those who cannot sleep.
Just before dawn,
A thin moon slides in through the window
And in a moment those awake
Walk the pale road of remembrance,
Of longing, until the past
Becomes the pale road of prayer.
Let the clock chime again,
That the past may be left behind,
The moon soothe the restless heart,
The whispered words bring peace.
©2021 Gwen Grant.