The Pilgrim

 

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.