By Blanca Pereda
Some cathedrals need neither altar nor bell tower.
Everything is in its place, where it belongs.
Calm.
The rocks breathe. The green splits the stone into cracks and then tucks it in, like a
mother settling her child to sleep.
I stay still, waiting for some ancient god to bless me. So still I might be mistaken for
moss. I sit down and the cold goes right through me. I don’t mind. It is the price of entry to this
temple, which charges nothing more.
Silence.
The waves lick the rocks, coming in like an ancestral prayer learnt by heart. Their cadence
blurs into a siren song. The stones let them go: the salt is worth it.
I will leave too, and I will have learnt from them. I will cut the rope. There will be no anchor any more.
This place will remain a sanctuary.
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