The Traveler

The traveler had walked
 on the dusty road
all through the night,
trying in vain to catch up
to his elusive quarry.
His walking stick,
carved in the likeness of an owl,
had been put to good use.
Now, the sun rose,
bringing with it
a light that would help the weary
traveler with the promise
of better sight than at night,
when all the moon would offer
were a few weak beams.
As he approached a copse
of trees
(beech by the looks of them),
the traveler quickened his pace,
knowing the promise of
a good rest underneath the
shade of the gracious and
kindly leaves.
He sat down in a heap of
dusty and worn clothing,
taking this chance to rest
his fatigued body and mind.
As he sat there,
walking stick on one side,
pack on the other,
the wanderer lay back
his head and dreamed.
He dreamt of lovely things,
of happier days,
of peace in his homeland.
When he awoke,
it was to find a red sunset,
and a willowy figure before him.
Stunned and surprised,
the traveler stood up quickly,
grabbing his stick and pack,
which lay untouched on the ground.
He glanced at the stranger
in front of him-
his eyes widened in surprise.
It was her.
He whispered her name.
She nodded,
the curl in her hair
bobbing in conformation.
It was miraculous.
They had
found one another
again,
just like they said
they always would.