City of Poets

There is no cure
  for the melancholy
    of owl song at sunset.

What power could make
  the exiled man quit
    his longing for the

house of his hands, for
  the scent of apple wood
    on the sinking autumn air,

for the cold kisses 
  of children as night
    drives them indoors?

There is a song,
  a taste, a woman's
    face that calls me home

through the misted forest,
  across the pebbled shore
    to the City of Poets.