cantos cortos del camino

5 km an hour 05.28

The Spanish countryside whizzes by 

at 5 km an hour, that is. 

Whole fields of flowers–

    blues and 

    pinks and 

    purples and

    splashes of vermillion poppies–

I spy as 

my sore feet plod along 

at 5 km an hour.

I chat with other peregrinos and

march through lonely towns 

at 5 km an hour.

The sun beats down as the land stretches out 

and I move along, 

at 5 km an hour.

Watercolor 06.02 

I wish I knew how to watercolor, so I might capture a moment such as this. The rising sun’s sweet yellow swirls effortlessly into the baby blue sky as soft white wisps of clouds are interspersed into the mix. The ever-present birdsong might be more difficult to capture, but the fluidity of those blurred pastel paints would be unparalleled. 

Sunshine on my shoulders 06.04

The sun rises behind me and warms my back,

            softly at first

            but soon with searing intensity 

The sun is ever behind me, pushing me along

I reach the hostel and am done for the day 

as the sun crosses the sky 

Curled up in my bunk and asleep 

            long before the sun has waved goodbye

 

But a sweet man at dinner tonight commented upon 

            how lovely

it will be to

finally

watch the sun set in Finisterre

            the rays of light fading into the ocean in front of us 

            feeling the beams on our faces 

soaking in its goodness. 

Plaza Mayor 06.05

Some days

            you just need to doze off in the plaza

            serenaded by the sweet lullabies of 

overheard conversations, 

bar music 

and the squeals of delight 

                        a young girl makes as she careens around, 

                        in a care-free choreography with her 

                        fluffy black pup. 

Small mercies 06.09

Iced tea that tastes of lemons and summer days in the sun.

Cherries taken off a stranger’s tree.

Roses, wet with rain and laden with aroma.

Nutella left in the communal section of the fridge.

Free eggs.

Directions to the supermarket accompanied by an umbrella.

A tiny bottle of extra-virgin olive oil 

from an extra concerned ex-chef

Voice memos from Mercy. 

The old stone walls 06.12

The old stone walls, built tall and wide, 

once fortifying 

now crumbling 

surround this ancient monastery. 

 

The stories that these old stones hold, 

with mossy memories in tow, 

shows that time moves, 

slowly

surely

 

Unhurried by the frantic pace of pilgrims passing it by,

the wall simply stands.