Mountain

Starting off:  preparation
lists and gathering;
clothes, footwear, maps,
provisions, water, resolve.

The mind's eye sees
the path to take, but it
disappears into rocks, gullies.
All that is left is the
peak:  the sharp neatness
of it soaring and distance
and clouds.

No more to be done:  the step
begins:  one foot in front
of the other.  Fear
in the heart, fear
of failure, of hurt.

But there is no going back -
movement widens
and we do not fit
our past silhouette.

Road of rocks and stones,
disappearing road, gullies,
rivers, wide loads.  Breath
ragged in the throat.

Map creased from use, sweaty
hands, hot sun, skint knees.
The call of the eagle, high and
wide, invisible to the eye
soaring into limitless sky.

Steep trails, feet skidding
on scree, the air grows
thin, hotter sun, the veils
lift and the land recedes,
looks toy-like in distance.

The odd scrubby tree and
patch of gorse, ferns crowd
near streams, silence vast
and wild coursed through
by wind.

Little hidden lochs like gems
deep blue, cold, cold.

My throat is sore, I shake
from effort, my legs are jelly
not my own.  I look up
look down, so far come,
so far to go.

The heights are calling me,
the goal is always
over the next ridge.
Receding summit, I try
for you - how can you be
	beyond my reach?

I can feel it:  the cairn:
stones placed by hands
of those who went before.
The highs, the lows, the
black depths of the heart,
the diamond skies.

I have rested long enough:
	time to stand.

previous poem

next poem