The Moor

Cold day at the shrine:  the
storm hit implacable with high
wind and rain, its fingers
finding spaces in to chill

the walk was hard, but
O the hot blessed water after
when I doused and doused,
skin red and a happy sprite
I was in my bare room

messages from far away
on my 'phone:  husband,
brother, his mother;  speaking
to the Sister today helped
point a way forward across
the open moor, dispel

some of the overarching gloom -
I will be a flowering vine
attached to a trellis:  the wood
strongly dug-in, rooting.  It
will help me bud and live,
cling hard against the wind.

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