Light drizzle as if the Atlantic
were examining its conscience
November no longer pretends
Rain dowsed its bonfires and sparks
Santiago is Spain’s secret capital
Patrols arrive day and night
Pilgrims wander its streets, exhausted
or eager, like ordinary tourists
A woman sat by the cathedral
She leaned on her backpack and sobbed
The pilgrimage is over
Where will she go now
Cathedrals are only stones
Stones don’t know motion
Evening approaches
and winter