For the last three days
between Santiago and Cee
I have walked at a furious pace
trying to outrun my thoughts.
Now I am on the cliff top gazing at the sea.
I abandoned my fellow pilgrims
as I felt uneasy with a disparate group
from Italy, Germany, England, Brazil and America.
I felt that they found me unacceptable,
a contract written in white ink,
its terms clear but silent.
They booked an apartment for themselves
and I was given the couch to sleep on.
I snook off without a word and found my own bed to say in.
I have tried to forgive myself to no avail.
Their faces haunt me.
Walking along the cliff edge
I realise I have always been on the edge
of friends, family, neighbours and work,
and I exclude myself.
The sea is a sheet of the clearest blue,
the wind brushes a ripple over the surface.
Published in Crossways issue 8 https://crosswayslit.com/1095-2/
Diarmuid Fitzgerald 