Not the best of weather to
begin my Camino,
clipped slate clouds so
low I stoop beneath them
their ominous jags hanging
stalactite fashion,
there’s a stiff riffle of
a breeze squaring-up
determined to push me back
indoors.
my best intentions
fractured porcelain mosaics
my fortitude pierced
Threading gently in this
dull malaise
wind-song charms my ears with
distant pipes,
seduced I check my retreat,
turn to meet the road
and stride south toward a promised
sun,
seeking enlightenment, settled
thoughts, clarity.
modern life strangles
my spirituality
creativity
The path becomes my blood brother
spilt red on red dust, as one, symbiosis
drawing me further on to find the pallid sun,
oak staff my compass needle, magnetized
by the much-trodden holy way.
thus, I am beguiled
my determination flies
campaniles ring out
© Graham Sherwood 09/2017
