Poetry

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Some people treading on unknown paths,can lead them to a path well trod,seeking of course some secret way,the hills and trees that they may encounter,onwards they go though the paths meander,
the flowers and trees and birds give ease,on one high hill they find a shell,a saint had lived until
their time had come,and was now gone,so the pilgrims they still find their way,with reverence
they fondly pray,the miles they cover but do not stray,each mile trod means they are getting near,
that saintly person they hold so dear,have welcomed them year,on year,until their own time comes to make things clear,their journey's over for another year,or until THE GOOD LORD SAYS,make to me then your own last prayer,down here.
Joe.

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