Pilgrim's Way

I
In the half light between ages
I weep, write, seek all that is right
confident each step is forward,
fearing the earth slips faster back
and, open to all life offers,
harbour misgivings that true north
is but one point of the compass.
II
When the day comes and the light breaks,
Then it will be plain: how the hills,
deceiving us, rose to exactly
where we feared they wouldn’t, yielding
the best view of the crooked paths
which were, we will see, far straighter
than those we sought to trace ourselves.

Post-lapsarian

A grey morning. A child
plays with apples, windfalls.
Blessings unbidden, the
pickings no less sweet than
the fruit yet to descend
with fresh revelations:
The gravity of knowledge,
joy of discovery.

Last things
From drifting clouds
Fall light and ice:
it's wind-fall fruit,
the year's last crop.
Branches strain
solstice light
cider-bright,
Winter's
harvest-
Home.

untitled
The west wind wafts light,
sunset’s fire pours on a city
haunted by rain clouds.
Just so your love will find me
when years are beyond counting.

Peter Mitham lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, where he covers real estate for Business in Vancouver. In 2000, he published a bibliography of Robert W. Service. His poems have appeared in the Gaspereau Review and New Brunswick Reader Magazine.