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Waking  I have become one of the thirty-two who gather belongings in the dark and move into this new day. I have become a breathing, watching part of The Way, this emerging disparate collective of 10,000 hero’s and shero’s who every month journey towards Santiago and St James.

gloom follows darkness while

memories encroach upon

un-stretched footfalls of this repeating now.

emergent sinews warm within an unfamiliar

familiar sunrise. heart rates beat through

dust tracks of sweat to trickle back and traipse to trail

before these mountainous beauties.

Moved to become, step by step, we move towards that distant place

where Love lays bare its beckoning

where futures burn the residues of mindlessness

where soft blues circulate and commune

to toe and heal past pavement cracks

to haze and soothe in mindfulness

this earth bound cling to far off family bliss

and the half remembered vagrancies

of city centre urbane stress.

‘….so too He fashioned the hero, the poet or orator. The poet cannot do what that the other does, he can only admire, love and rejoice in the hero….for the poet is as it were the hero’s better nature, powerless it may be as a memory is, but also transfigured as a memory is.’ S. Kierkegaard, from preview to ‘Fear and Trembling.’

 

 

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