Wouldn't It?

After the dry leaves' rustle before dusty boots,
After the birds' departure, the leave-taking,
After the withered stalks, brittle, white,
After the distant sunsets' brilliant colours,
   Red, purple, orange patches in viridian,

After the thin wind through the threadbare coat,
After the wailing autumn storms died down in snow,
After the thirst, the hunger, the slow deceptions,
After the blue notes, the well-known strains,
   Death knocking to tend on the trembling maiden,

After the following footsteps and the faster heartbeat,
After the lonely midnight street in near black-out,
After the lost days' trouble and the task half done,
After the last long miles of shuffling feet
   That take the wanderer past the sudden gorge

Wouldn't it be great if there were
A shaded lamp, a dry towel and a welcome
That asks no questions
That wants no reasons
That knows no misgivings;

A contented smile and the joy of acceptance,
Of being allowed in without explanations
To a room with closed curtains
Where words are not needed
As one glance will do

Since silence is surely
A part of the welcome you'd find when
The weary road has wound all the way back
To a place to come home to –
   After all?