Laid before the western sky-
the barren land
the slopes of hills
the empty nests, no flight of birds.
She, the saintly child, a pedestrian
far from a cottage
where wind and rain carved their
names on aging splintered sill;
on her way
the path- stony and rough
the air, motionless.
Left behind the whitewashed
the bible lying among the crumbs
upon a wobbling table.
Once upon, the house took root
azure fire burned
under cauldron stew,
chimney smoke touched blue sky
Then, truths swept around like
dust with a broom,
she in her eyes saw a pilgrimage-
down the path she strode
tears trying to drown her progress.
Through the wood in her little black dress,
then a glimpse of emptiness
and tombstones where old believers
were laid to eternal rest.
Traveled for a long time, tired and hungry
nights without end,
the sky muddied black;
then, the opening of the sea-
she stood in, imagining purity
Copyright © 04/02/2016 lance sheridan®