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On the Pilgrim’s Way

by John Stocks

Some nights, when the air is soft,
When the frailest birdsong has stilled
To a sweet-scented, timeless tenderness,
Then, a tentative faith creeps in.

Earlier a sharp and magisterial light
Fixed upon some slant of brickwork
On a half-ruined gable end
Had caught my attention.

As we watched skimming swallows
Trace the delineated contours
Of a deserted village,
It was as if time had left our pilgrimage.

It was transitory, but I felt weightless,
As if we were boundless,
Locked like stars
In an ever-present continuum
With the constellations
Orion, Pegasus,
The hunter and the hunted
Burning with a new intensity,
Carrying the torch of infinity.

Copyright © 2014 by John Stocks

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