Nothing at night seems familiar,
the night jars fill my heart,
in a darkness unimagined
the questions slowly start.

Nothing at night seems familiar,
the stars are cast under a spell,
if this land could speak in this empty night,
what stories might it tell?

Nothing at night seems familiar,
My plough is broken and lost,
I search for sweet Cassiopeia,
drowned on the seas that we crossed.

Nothing at night seems familiar,
but by day, these shells at my feet,
are the same that I saw through the vineyard,
where the roads to the mountain meet.

But nothing at night is familiar.
Mired in this damp earth
I stand on the dust of kings long past
and I calculate their worth.

by Jon Hamp, 2016

Photo by Matt Prosser