Foreboding

Foreboding;
Sombre hints upon the air,
Dead leaves pause before the drop
And the wind trembles,
A rain dark night.
The traveller has come long
He's tired but edgy
And does not wish to hasten journey's end.
In the distance ,
A light,
The light from a window,
The light from an inn,
It beckons but it's not inviting.
Still the road is hard and rocky and stumblesome
And the rain weighs heavy on him,
Not in sheets but blankets,
Dragging him down deep
But not into sleep,
Into the night.
The rest almost appeals,
But this will be his longest night,
His longest rest.
So the traveller pushes on.
He knows the destination does not make the journey
And travelling's the point,
But the verge comes anyway.
And the traveller stands in the rain.
He will stand till the cold wind blows him in,
Into the unknown interior and into the bed in which no one wants to lie...