It's dark again. We've come back to the spot
where the trail curves around, and you can taste the creek
blowing on the wind. My hair is sticky hot,
plastered against my neck and cheek,
stuck beneath my backpack's shoulder strap.
Have we been walking thirty-eight long years
or an afternoon? This is the final lap.
We plod along until the pool appears,
green and still beneath the countless stars.
Just beyond, the water bubbles light
upon the rocks. It will not be far,
but there's more desert still to cross tonight.
I plant myself upon the mossy mound,
stretch out my toes: could this be holy ground?
Cuddy; a sonnet for St. Cuthbert
1 day ago