I hear your voice in the darkness

and it reminds me of cold autumn rain

as I hitchhiked north

and saw the white threat of

angry spellbound snow

on the distant

Canadian mountain range

and I find myself crying

for the memories

your words placed in me,

as I once became the new kid in

the small Oxfordshire town,

as I was the new kid

on the highway finding temptation,

and the glory of a lift with a beautiful woman.

 

It is the gentle sweep, brush like,

close and comforting of the guitar at play

and the mysticism of the American lyric,

unabashed, full of persuasion,

full of drama and pause,

the lure of the open road

in Kerouac dogma

but with the sun forever

on the other horizon…

 

I hear your voice on the wind

and the tear of dark room solitude,

the stereo playfully offering

a shot of sunrise,

how can you be gone,

there’s so few left who remember the way.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016