Glastonbury
I sought shelter from the
rain; under the gallery
that connects the chapels.
On rough, hewn stone, I prayed –
there with fellow pilgrims,
in the dark chamber
with the whir of a summer storm
all around us.
The alter had not changed
for 900 years;
sculpted out of pure stone
with the image of the
crucified Christ above it;
The image was worn into the rock
barely an outline –
so stunning, so beautiful --
that I wept.
I sought shelter from the
rain; under the gallery
that connects the chapels.
On rough, hewn stone, I prayed –
there with fellow pilgrims,
in the dark chamber
with the whir of a summer storm
all around us.
The alter had not changed
for 900 years;
sculpted out of pure stone
with the image of the
crucified Christ above it;
The image was worn into the rock
barely an outline –
so stunning, so beautiful --
that I wept.
I wrote this poem on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury several years ago. There were so many beautiful, spiritual things I found in England. So many mysteries. It seemed like everywhere I walked, I was walking in the path of a saint or a poet. It was amazing to just walk through the arches of places like Glastonbury --- places that had called to people for centuries, had gathered the poets and the artists and the dreamers; all those people, who, like me, seek to find the spiritual in the everyday world.