Mont St Michel
November mist wrapping striations of gauze
round the rocks and buttresses.
Stepping each and every step where once pilgrims
Knelt and pressed their hands together
I look up at where I have still to travel and
Back to where I have been.
With each climb the sea distances itself.
And these so solid stones amidst this whisper of light
Block the wind from the silted shore
Here on this path to paradise where Michael looks down
I clutch damp walls
To steady the faltering feet of one whose faith is gone..
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