Pilgrimage, a poem

 Pilgrimage

The shrine is distant yet; barefoot I walk the road
in pilgrimage, in search of healing. Spring became
the summer as I made my way, the woods grew green

and cool beside my path. Cool, too, it will be in
that grotto where the sacred waters rise to heal
these fevers. Shall I drink deeply there, slake thirsts,

end weariness? Life may be pain but is pain life?
I ask this of the sun, companion of my days,
and of the rain. I ask the sentry stars each night.

None answer. So I journey onward. So I seek
my sacred destination, emptying myself
along the way. Yes, farther along, farther along,

a prayer dropped each mile to mark the distance traveled.
All roads join as one. I shake the dust from my feet
and walk in pilgrimage; the shrine is distant yet.

Stephen Brook ©2023