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
Sunday, May 14, 2023
Pilgrimage, a poem
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