Not the best of weather to begin my Camino,
clipped slate clouds so low I stoop beneath them
their ominous jags hanging stalactite fashion,
there’s a stiff riffle of a breeze squaring-up
determined to push me back indoors.
my best intentions
fractured porcelain mosaics
my fortitude pierced
Threading gently in this dull malaise
wind-song charms my ears with distant pipes,
seduced I check my retreat, turn to meet the road
and stride south toward a promised sun,
seeking enlightenment, settled thoughts, clarity.
modern life strangles
my spirituality
creativity
The path becomes my blood brother
spilt red on red dust, as one, symbiosis
drawing me further on to find the pallid sun,
oak staff my compass needle, magnetized
by the much-trodden holy way.
thus, I am beguiled
my determination flies
campaniles ring out
© Graham Sherwood 09/2017
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 