Black Rock
In these last four years they have not changed
temporary lovers’ graffiti,
ragwort in a crack of soil
yet otherwise just the same
and on a timeless view.
But now the scramble up the lead-spoil moraine
is more calculated, breathless
to the heart-pounding rest on the lower rocks.
I try to find an easier gradient
on the sloping stones,
I wedge in crevasses, knees lock,
the ibex is gone.
At the top I drink in the view with rasping gulps,
rest longer,
contemplate each downward move.
I descend backwards those longer, deeper drops
between rocks,
hold to stone like life,
seek the aid of low, supple branches,
the reassurance of deeply rooted trees.
This climber aches differently.
Jeremy Duffield