Pilgrimage
some people think this is autobiographical and sometimes some people are right – it’s from me book.
In mellow autumnal September days
Children hunt conkers for playground scrapes
And before the fruit rots on the trees
And leaves turn brown and fall
I stow my bike in the luggage van
Of the Hull, Beverley, Scarborough train.
I get off at Flamborough
And ride to the Head,
At North Landing beach
I hunt white chalk stones
And pebbles right for skimming.
Then to an unmarked track,
Only a hare might run.
That leads to a path.
That leads to a chine
I consider mine.
A rivulet runs toward the sea.
And a stunted tree,
Genus unknown to me,
Overhangs the dribbling stream.
I mark each stone with the date.
And encircle the trunk making
A necklet of remembrance
Sea salt fresh stones
Are added to the pile
And fallen ones carefully restored
To their prior allotted spot.
I sit on the bank flicking
Skimmers to the sea,
They sink in an instant in the holy stream
And pray in my sanctuary –
A watery welcoming natural cathedral –
Of stones, stream and stunted tree,
For unborn souls
Sluiced from life ten years apart.
Each visit hugs together in my heart:
Two infants I did beget but never met.
Two former lovers – motherhood declined,
And the regret.
I started to embrace the spiritual sanctuary without rules or Creed. The notion of salt-clean remembrance and the esoteric allusion to a single life path, and then…. The bleakness, perhaps even futility of the pilgrimage left me in tears. Beautiful work…
Cheers,
Jim
Maybe all pilgrimages are ultimately futile but we press on anyway 🙂 Thanks, Jim.