All things are wearisome.
No man can claim that eyes have not had enough of seeing, ears their full of hearing.
Today I could not help but feel wearily lonesome.
The soul quietly keening.

But I thought now content of those Autumn pilgrim days in Walsingham.
At the Anglican shrine, sitting alone in the black-bricked little house.
Offering oneself to the Celestial Lamb.
The place so quiet you could hear a heavenly mouse.

Outside is the shrine’s fountain.
At that late and deserted hour, you can listen to the water through the open door, tinkling.
The stillness of a high lonely mountain.
The light in the dark of candles burning.

All is shaded and without trouble.
The statue of Mary, her remade statue, the old one cast into fire, welcoming, sad, inscrutable.