The Pilgrim in him stirred at dawn,
rose from the sobbing hollow of the
night
and crept from where his wanting
wife lay dreaming,
slipped swift through the yawning
door
to meet the bold blush of the sun
as it chased old mist from a
snaking track.
He took nothing, did not look back,
his Pilgrim heart now eager to be
gone.
For many years he trod this path,
pricked by a thirst that quenched
his burning soul,
towards the shallow, bitter pools
where dust devils snapped at his
heel and laughed.
And yet he would not stop to rest,
for had too often found himself
seduced
by forest shade whose twisted roots
contrived to snare and lay him bare
at last.
Nor would he turn, for he might see
the lurching footprints seared into
the sand,
or shadows writhing in the wind
and night beyond,
that would not let him be.
Just once upon the way he paused
and wondered if…
but then the thought was gone.
He knew.
Her dreaming done, she too had
risen with the sun,
had seen
and gently closed the open door.
