It's a grey day, cool on the Río Ulla.
as a young girl boards a pilgrim boat,
a chaplet on her wrist.
Her father told me he's forgotten how to pray the rosary.
The rosary I know took a thousand years to grow, though
it seems a Marian practice made by men.
The opening and closing of decades,
described in 59 beads, a medal, a crucifix, all too heavy and grand,
unsuitable for water.
I recall the slow invention and dissolution of other sacred objects,
their companion prayers.
This girl in the boat today does not need 59 beads
but good weather and a sturdy hull.
