by Jane Wageman ’13, ’17 MA 

Set it against unborn stars, set it in gold
Set it on twisted metal arms
Of light, a diamond raised up, wrung out
Set the sun down
Lifted off its lofty perch
Laid low below the clouds,
Above the waves
Let the water lap up the light
Let it lick the last glows of the globe
A wafer held over
The sea’s glass brim
Bowled out wide, a cup
Consummate and consume it
Sum up our parts
And tell us of the more
Set it in stone: we are here
                          we will return

Set it against a setting like this:
So many pilgrim bodies on a beach
Limbs lain weary into the sand
Sweat and salt dried onto skin
At the ends of the earth
Finisterre—and the sun finally tears
Itself away and our eyes
Do not leave it and its body
Kisses the sea, and see—
We do not kiss, we do not touch
But we are touched
By the beams, brief
Before the light goes
Before it pilgrims away to the other place
And we pick ourselves up
And set ourselves on other paths too
Home through the dark.

Finisterre is an alternate ending to the Camino de Santiago, which pilgrims could add on to the end of their journey, after reaching the Cathedral of St. James in Santiago. Finisterre was, for medieval Christians, thought to be the “end of the world.” As we approach the Eucharistic table next week in our celebration of the Triduum, let us imagine ourselves, like these pilgrims, still on our camino to heaven.