By Rowan Wyatt
Writing a poem about life’s journey can be problematic. After all, for some of us it’s been a long hard and painful slog, for others it’s been a joyful meandering, carefree and full of sunshine, for others still it is only just beginning. But we all share one thing, we are all on a journey and for most of us it will take a very long time.
The Lent period is a good opportunity to take stock of things, look at the route you are taking and if the road ahead branches or if you think you are on the wrong road, ask for help. It may come from an unexpected source Luke 10: 25-37 or a direct answer to prayer showing the road in glowing neon signs exactly when and where you needed it. Just ask, look and trust.
Recently I have become filled with the idea of a walking pilgrimage, maybe the Camino de Santiago, and after praying about it I felt impressed with the words ‘Solvitur ambulando’ which I found is translated as ‘it is solved by walking’. It was then this poem came back into mind, from my last book The Chase and other poems and as I re-read the words, the poem and the prayer made far more sense and I began to see exactly which road I was on. The way ahead is hard right now but I know soon my blistered broken feet will dance on lush green dew sparkling grass.
The Road R.R Wyatt
My feet hurt,
The soles are cracked and bleeding,
Stuck with thorns and broken glass,
And the path ahead looks worse.
The sky o’head is dark
Heavy, black and ponderous,
A pendulum in a grandfather clock
Waiting to strike the rain.
Rest my weary feet,
Sit by the side of the road,
In the dark and rain, surrounded on each side
By wolves, wearing wool, leering.
I am lost, floundering,
I am on the wrong road, and I suffer,
Trudging on through molasses and tar
Slowly getting nowhere, lost.
There is another path,
I have heard it said. The road gleams,
Paved in marble, smooth and cool on the feet,
Sun and blue sky overhead.
A clear route,
Straight and logical, with signs
But I can’t find it, know not where to look,
I need a guide but there’s no one here.
I could call for help,
But would I be heard, would my
Bloodied feet cause laughter and scorn or shame,
My rags a tattered state to be seen.
Fear of judgement,
And condemnation keep me on my path
Of bones, dust, pain and tears,
Till weariness fills me, and I feel a hand on my shoulder.
A guide, smiling,
Washes and binds my broken feet,
And clothes me in his robe and taking my hand,
Shows me the road.
© Rowan Robert Wyatt 2015