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Journeying Poetry Competition 2021
Friday 3rd December 2021
David Gleed
For our inaugural Journeying poetry competition, we welcomed poems inspired by a pilgrim-journey to one or other of the Christian pilgrimage sites of Britain and Ireland, or by a longing to undertake that journey.
The winning poem by Rosemary Power, Glen Nant, was published on this website on November 15th, but with so many excellent entries we thought we would publish others over the coming weeks. Here are three, by Laurie-Mo Gullachsen, Andrew Vessey and Pam Pott:
Pilgrimage
By Laurie-Mo Gullachsen
In breath
In steps
In balance
In hope
In silence
In listening
In joy
In despair
In community
In solitude
In fellowship
In striving
In shadows
In light
In darkness
In fear
In bravery
In loss
In abundance
In determination
In peace
In prayer
I am called
Forward
For I am guided
And I will not be lost
I will follow
In patience
In peace
In love
In fellowship
In faith
I will go forward
I shall seek
journeys end
Giving thanks
And knowing the blessings
Of the journey yet to come
______________
Cuthbert's Isle
By Pam Pott
Here I sit
at the foot
of the weathered wooden cross
on Cuthbert's Isle,
buffeted by the wind
listening
aware of sounds - waves
wind
birds
drinking in
the sky's dramatic backdrop
sun on sea
grass dancing
seal bounding out to the open sea
white crested waves on the horizon
and me
alone
and small
in your greatness
Lord of this moment
of all moments
keep me sitting
at the foot of your cross
listening to your voice
seeing
from your viewpoint
feel the wind
of your spirit
buffeting my will
my soul still before you
alone
with you
in my smallness
and your greatness
__________________
Rain at St Davids
By Andrew Vessey
Driving westwards into a watery
heaven, these old headland fingers
are waiting, cross-creased, longing
for the coming rain, both of us now
wishing for our springs to rise and
again become those easy streams
which baptise cowslips or grow
to settle my own unsteady convictions.
There are tales here of precious
babes, in darker ages, once brought
by thankful mothers, sons growing
to watch the seas run dry and greet
skies drowning under dawn's slow
splendour, meanwhile the wild
blackthorn insists on waving to
baleful cows who blink back with surprise.
All of us here, cows and choughs,
you and I, might think this rain
new and holy, as if for the first
time good, but we miss the million
rainbows hiding from a soft sun,
crossing this holiest of ground,
making shadows of older prayers
lighting the souls of blessed Non and Dewi.
