Was ever thus,
when the pilgrim came from
the sea,
fearing the return.
—-
They stayed in a
still small island
listening for the
thin place and
—
finding only birds
and the rolling waves,
filling the air
with music,
when they looked for
—
God. In the waiting
they smile at flowers
nodding in the bee breezes
and glower at the dark clouded horizon.
——
Slowly time slipped by and the shore
filled and emptied to a rhythm
set by the Spirit,
and the pilgrim
picks driftwood
as a memory.
The steps of ancients have walked this way,
searching out for easement of earthly sorrows,
seeking souls to bring to an earthy paradise
or expiating their sins with hunger and sorrow,
opening a way for newer treads of modern soles
to journey through the patient places of Gower.
——
Weary living brings the purposeful pilgrim,
eyes tired of seeing a tense troubled world,
intent on travelling in the holy, loving heart
of a being who reaches through thin places,
where angels hover to assist the seekers and
wounded hands long to hold their burdens.
——
The trail winds though the coastal paths,
down lanes, passing lichen covered trees,
toiling farmers’ friendly waves, tumbling
water alongside frantically buzzing bees
searching the wayside sweet flowers,
and villages of folk, tend loved gardens.
——-
Each step brings new things, a wren calls
and overhead a buzzard hungrily stares.
Waterproofs are stowed against the moods
of the wide sky crafting its treasures hourly;
where the sojourner on the sacred way,
soul rumbling, is hungry for a holy touch.
——
And so, the pilgrimage takes our hands,
feeding us with grace in the incompleteness
of existence and fuelling us for an unsteady
future; and invites us to take kindly comfort
to sustain our strength, hearten our prayers
and be broken bread to all our neighbours.