SANTIAGO
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding
then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you
as if leaving you to walk
on thin air, then catching you,
holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,

David Whyte.

The Covid Pilgrimage

Walking in the red dust
Made of the remains of the many dead.
There is still a path between
The broken walls and dying trees.
Black swans flying over me.
The sky is uncomfortable,
Twisting grey and dark clouds, tumbling.

The pestilence covers the low hills like fog.
Tendrils and squalls blowing towards me,
Leaving me afraid, masked, and cloaked.

There are others, masked and covered.
Mostly they avoid me like I am dangerous,
Because I am

For a seemingly never-ending time
The Orange King cavorted ahead.
Lying, shaking his scepter
Then he stumbled and fell away
Leading the unwary far into the wilderness.
I can still hear their cries,
That now sound much more like screaming.

After an impossible time
I have reached the crest of a low hill.
And there—could it be—so far away,
there is a light, a beacon on the trail.
I feel a roaring in my ears,
My eyes blurred with tears.
It changes colors but it is still there,
A light shining at the end of this Camino.

I am still walking in the red dust,
Still mostly alone, cloaked and masked,
But now I feel lighter, stronger.
I hear a child laughing, a bird singing,
And the relief of Joy comes to me.

The pestilence still crouches on the ridges
Coils of menacing clouds approach.
But I find myself hoping and reaching out a hand
To those I love.
I am learning a lesson from the pilgrimage.
Today my heart is open.

Gary Gibbens, Jan 2021