The Gower Pilgrim

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.

The Pilgrimage of Life

My long legs reached to the farthest shore of my being,

shoving and pushing through the muddiness of rejection,

and the sucking swampiness of my serious certified sickness,

each step a challenge of my spirituality of distinctiveness,

of my direct thinking to wonder at the great unknown, and

still I’ll move, ever my blurred eyes looking for the briefest

of arrivals and departures, each harried horizon differing 

and developing in her persistence to a protected peace,

a hushed silence in the noise of extant voices, seeking

rest for my soul and a hidden haven of hopefulness.


The soul lifted his feet and walked to meet his maker,

It felt the dirt and filth of the man who degraded him,

over and over and over he forced it to see and feel,

the terror of a child as they were bruised, battered and

violated by the body inhabited, vainly longing for change.

God looked at the wretched, broken soul, and weeping

welcomed the soul into heaven with holding and a sad,

glad heart. The soul wept bitter tears of abuse and took

the task to commit to pray for the many tortured souls,

children whose souls are assaulted aggressively daily.


Little thought is given to where we take our souls and

precious moments gladden their hearts but the sullied,

soiled, sanctimonious situations batter these spiritually

based beings against the beauty, pure joy of heaven

from whence they arrived   unadulterated, loving, a holy


guide to show us the way to find love and hope. The

children know.   It is like a blighting millstone around 

their necks too. Souls arrive as a sky filled sunrise to 

us and speak gently and kindly leading us to be our

best but some close their minds, block the light, and 

welcome darkness.

Slowly the soul shrivels and hides unable to leave,

like bulls in china shops, we smash the potential of a 

loving hope and tread on the broken pieces of each

life we touch or we can celebrate our gifted spirituality,

love its gracious presence, leaning on its goodness.