Woman at the Well

She waits, as the others
who throb at the thrill
shed their spill of grateful tears 
at the shrine of their inspiring
She was only there enquiring
stranger knocking at the door
while others are floored by
the quickening of grace, grabbed
by the magic of the place
by the drench, dunk, 
dab of living waters
but she was just prodigal daughter...

She wills her heart to beat 
just as smart, with the same pulse
for rain not to douse her small flame
it's all she has to her name
So she bleats the same song
an attempt to belong to the tribe
glad gathered by mission merit
she claims none to her credit...

Yet the Spirit of a bygone age
still engaged, embraced her
trembling approach with neither
rebuke nor reproach
At the chill blast of reanointing
she looked up, and saw Him
pointing out to sea
"You mean me?"
As she mouths her silent "Yes"
she then knew she's been blessed
not for works but by His faith
in her; she saw it in His gaze.

(written on the pilgrim's trail, after visiting St Brendan's Well, Dingle, Ireland)