I have walked the ancient highways,
Pilgrimaged Caminos, along tracks through forests to
Santiago de Compostella where the Gospel bell rings
and envelops us with the scent of heaven.

Stone age tracks and rumoured Roman roads
carrying ancients
across Lakeland ridges above Ullswater ,
Pooley Bridge to Howtown,
touching Martin’s dale and High Street
where the holy feet of Kentigern trod
carrying the Gospel words on both his sole and soul.

I have waited on the shore as Northumbrian seas
flow and ebb revealing the track over water leading to the haven
of Aidan’s gathered boys, long ago
to pray and hear the word of the Lord, going out eagerly
to imprint God’s love to a thirsty, hungry people.

I have travelled up Welsh valleys and heard
the whispered stories of holy men and women
consecrating the soil with joyful presence and with pain;
meeting St. Melangell, hiding trembling nature,
a hare protected against royal need to kill.

I have shuffled up worn steps, prayer walking 
to kneel with the common people at Canterbury’s shrine.
( left hand only please! Make way for the richer folk
who hope to anticipate the right hand side of heaven
with their purses of gold!).

I have trodden along disused railway line
In the valley of Bec were monks and nuns
travelled between monastery and convent,
and more than once Archbishops and Bishops
left their homeland for Canterbury and beyond.

These ancient tracks, once deeply trodden remain,
echoes of journeys taken into a past world, presently,
and leading to a future steeped with hope,
to the end of all our walking,
the cell at the heart of God.

Mr.G. 25.11.24