By chance a journey ne’er fulfilled,
On the road perilous the walk will be.
A song or two sung in stillness,
Of light gathered from the willow-wisps dance.
St. Bridget oh, guide me upon this path,
My footsteps make steady and sure to be.
For the book it closes and the end approaches,
Glimpsed within the pages of word and writ.
For now unto this genteel land,
A blackened raven now doest approach.
Its call a rheed unto the song of the tinker,
Whose pathway a strand into the pattern woven is.
His pots and pans the moonlight reflects,
Silvered music from his fiddle is heard.
As the fey from word and writ emerge,
From crispened embers of long burned fire.
They of those and those of they,
Round the circle and reason gone awry.
Ne’er full-filled the road perilous,
Thy song in stillness twill not be heard.
To thee, to thee and only thee,
The raven shall call.
Be brave old soul and listen only,
To thy Rheed culled from a Tinker’s fiddle.
The song of destiny paired with truth,
That wilt of thy own soul prove true.
The book hast closed upon thy past,
Now to the future must ye look.
For when all the world and a single light,
Seems at darkness bequest to silence embrace.
The words hath failed thee,
So or it may seem today.
When hope is garnered at years end,
Or at lifeâ€™s enraptured beginnings.
All men must answer to deeds left behind,
Lowliest or lofty all too shall answer.
For that ray of joy so far yet from reach,
Hath to the abode of heaven escaped from thee.
Forget not thy own strength bound to thee,
That which binds to hold and help.
Thy beating heart not stilled by time,
The hope rests for thee within you see.
The journey it follows no known travelled path,
And you shall be called.
HM3 Jonathan Michael Benedict Adamshaspert, USN Copyright 2008