A Wayfarer's March

A Wayfarer's March

As summer's amber slowly yields to March's cooling sigh,

The Southern Cross stands sentinel beneath a different sky.

Far from the jasmine-scented lanes where both their childhoods grew,

Two souls have made a covenant with mountains, mist, and dew.

The monsoon rains of memory still linger in their hearts,

Yet Aotearoa's gentle winds have healed the older parts.

She walks beside him on these roads where silver fern trees lean,

And finds in autumn's early blush a grace she's never seen.

The temples of their younger days stand sacred, far and gold,

But every ridgeline here has psalms that wait to be retold.

March comes to them as pilgrims come with weariness and awe,

A season that both humbles them and fills each hidden flaw.

The children of the ancient soil now breathe a newer air,

And lay their South Asian roots like flowers in quiet prayer.

He takes her hand as evening falls on Taupo's mirrored face,

And knows that every road they walked has led them to this place.

For God is not confined to shores where they were born and blessed,

His mercy moves through Southern stars and makes new land a nest.

So welcome, March, you’re tender month, your threshold’ soft and wide,

For Wayfarer’s have found their home in your bosom together, side by side.

As summer's gold surrenders to the amber breath of fall, the pilgrim hears in rustling beech the ancient spirit's call; March turns the Southern roads to grace, the mountains soft with mist, and every weary wayfarer walks home by heaven's list. This poem was penned by the Wayfarer he slowly begins to find meaning in the Master's creation around him. -March 01, 2026