I walk all day. Eight hours. It's dark when I stop to look for a place to sleep. I have a torch.
Fitful and weak. There are houses to the right. To the left is the sea wall. A wide wall. I walk up on top.
Trees and vines are cracking it apart and draping over it. The sea is moon silver.
I find a shed. It has a small tractor and grass mats. I'm lucky. I light my candle and unroll my sleeping bag.
At 4am I get up. I don't want the farmer to find me asleep in his shed. It's dark.
The waves slap and from the grey world I can see shadowy foam launching up.
I walk and lower my hat brim when cars and trucks go by. The sun is still deep below the horizon.
Slowly, slowly the silvergreyblue divides into the heavens and the waves. I listen to the sound of my stick on the path.
There is a box full of forgotten pilgrim staffs.
A young couple stop in the rain to offer me a lift.
Copyright Edwina Breitzke May 1997