Sunday, 2 September 2012


Some ploughed their own furrow in the sea.
While others waged a war against the pilgrimage and lost.
For something so fundamental can’t be rooted out.

The compulsion to walk, to flock, to sail.
Barefoot on snowy roads, green hills, sand and stone,
On the path of the gulls.

Not everyone finds what he is looking for,
But everyone finds something that he didn’t have before.

They battled their way,
Through hardship unimaginable,
And found what they needed.

Doing something with what they had,
Muscle likes being worked.

Arriving they drew a boat and named it Domine ivimus,
Lord, we came.

- B. Wheatley
Most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Charles Foster's book The Sacred Journey.

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