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| Huelva |
Tomorrow morn, before the sun is high,
A daughter fair, two sons-in-law, and I
From Huelva in the sunny south of Spain
Will walk the old Camino once again.
The Cámino de Sur: you will agree
The name is apt, for from the southern sea
It wanders north to Zafra, on the Way —
The Via de la Plata, seven days
Beyond Seville, for hardy pilgrims bound
For Santiago, destined sacred ground.
A valiant band of pilgrims we, to wit:
Our capitán, a gentleman most fit,
And proven master of the Spanish tongue,
A necessary skill in lands far flung
From Albion’s shore, where folk will find it hard
To understand the language of the Bard
Of Avon. And next in line an athlete fine,
A runner of the marathon, a sign
Of greatness: she could run right off the top
The Cámino de Sur, without a stop.
Our third, a likely lad, a fellow fine,
Who jogs each day to work, come rain or shine,
Or snow, for dwelleth he, alas, poor wight,
In Winnipeg, within the winter blight.
And last, the laggard, I, with weary limb,
Endowed no more with vigour or with vim
Will plod along with slow iambic pace
Behind the Three, a smile upon my face.
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