Finding the crab apples, my astonishment
I’d gauge as being on a par with pilgrims
seeing a tear build in the corner
of the Spanish Virgin’s powder-blue eye.
Or those Egyptian passers-by, agape,
saying a year’s worth of prayers in one day
to the smiling saint on the roof who gave
city air the sheen of a gleaming corniche.
The fellside gardens of aunts always sheltered
a crab apple, jelly made before the clocks
went back. I’ve a yearning for jars in a line
on my pantry shelf, but time and again
walks yield nothing. It’s dusk. The windfalls glow.
This lonning – my Camino de Santiago.