Traditionally, you should walk
the mile between the shrines
unshod

sandals
unstrapped, eased off,
bare soles tender on the gravel,
the arid road;

after a hundred steps or so
you become inured to the slow
low level pain –

a Volvo estate zooms past
with its doppler rocktunes
then a fat tractor –

the grassy verge serves
as emergency redemption

look at you
postmodern
oldmadam

two women pushing prams
bustle in the other direction

fullofgrace fullofgrace

the heat keeps on

you start to crave tea
pots of the stuff

you sense past pilgrims
flickering

fullofgrace fullofgrace

now colder mudspots maybe cows
or horses there before you –

jagged pebbles
sharp as tacks
flatlands

midges

fullofgrace

over an hour must be nearly –
silly to give up now

one hand rosary one hand sandals
no reception –

only the swerve of the dirt path
a modest wooden gate

then a damp alley through shadows to
low-light beeswax –
blue-gold throne room –

silence
soft as slippers

cover photo courtesy of Roman Skrypnyk.