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R. L. Cook

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For the travellers

Not only for those
Who, in the bitter early hours,
Shivering and sick at heart,
Depart in trains, coffined in carriages,
Tasting the grime, the dregs of other journeys;
But also for those
Who make that other desperate journey
Towards an Everest in the mind -
Give light by night and day, St Christopher:
Unfold your arms, shelter, sustain, protect,
Grant guidance on the way. Theirs is a pilgrimage,
An act of faith - they are the travellers:
Allow them not to know
Inner defeat and do not let them fail
Even though they fall. For most will never reach
The hoped-for destination that,
A beacon in their minds,
Beckons, and moves beyond the dim horizon
As they advance; and let them not, because
They seek no formal shrine, despair of being
Admitted to a private sanctuary.
Torn by the storm, or tongues, unknown, forgotten,
Let them achieve, in the inner heart of tempest,
Or under snow, a certain destination.

 

Page(s) 48

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