Torches light intersecting lanes: 
moments of clarity from above 
illuminating dull bright 
beams off hoary eyes. 
For some, this is enough to see 
the next path their feet must follow, 
despite striking toes on stones 
in puddles of midnight. 

But others seek the hermit for hire 
with his swinging lantern, 
portable lighthouse ever-shining 
for ships never to feel lost 
even in returning darkness, 
even in white-outs of storm and snow. 

Winding cobbled streets become 
warm and welcoming for such guided, 
slow and steady and bold 
with an unwavering flame, 
no threat to quick horseshoes 
loose too soon in tremulous shadows.