There are days
when I am not a pilgrim,
when my feet are stuck in rutted land
and my hand
is empty of another's
by the choice
of a distanced and
wasting heart.
There are days
when the choice that's made
is made
without fear, without care,
without joy;
into despair's wilful, guilt-driven
destruction.
And to say that
betrayal is met
still by unquenched love
and hungered, stubborn grace
is no easy belief,
no callous relief,
no feigned grief.
It is simply true,
beyond all tears,
beyond all years,
beyond all doubt.
