In every place
I see her face
and just a trace
of her sweet scent

On lengthy flights
to ancient sites
through desert nights
lone in my tent

I’ve wandered far
beneath her star
bearing the scar
of what love meant

Though I’ve lived free
there’s been in me
melancholy
for times we spent

My wanderlust
perhaps is just
a heart that must
end its lament

I wrote this poem in the form of a Welsh rhupunt.