Martyred by The Camino de Santiago
I’m jabbed by thorns and scratched by hay, and we have barely started.
I must say this hike you planned is not for the fainted-hearted.
I never was a nature girl, in spite of what you think.
With just this amount of moving, I’m already at the brink.
It isn’t even noon yet, and we began at dawn.
“We’ll laugh about this later,” you say as I trudge on.
As we approach the cliff face, I worry about falling.
This mountain-climbing business is simply not my calling.
You say it’s a mere hillock, but to my exhausted eyes,
a hillock’s just a mountain in another guise.
Are we coming back this way? I ask, hoping the best,
thinking I’ll just wait here as the others mount the crest.
But alas, my hopes don’t gel. This trail leads to another.
Inside, I swear a bloody streak. Aloud, I mutter, “brother,”
as I lift my pack again and leave my comfy rock
to walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk.
When the day is finally done and in my bed I’m lying,
I am not laughing much at all, in fact, my dear, I’m crying!
I’ve grown blisters on my blisters and bruises on my bruises.
You can have your damn “Camino.” In the future, I’ll take cruises!!!