At the sight of the rocks
I forget
about bruised hips
and heavy legs.
I run.
The clusters of cold,
granite teeth do not shake
with the approaching of thunder.
Our thin ropes do,
heavy on our waist, sixty metres at a time.
We try to move fast
on the scarred ridge of the giant monster.
His indifference to our suffering – frightening
and alluring. His apparent death –
the essence of life.
On the way back
it is the sight of the lake
that saves us.
Lakes always do.
But not from tears of exhaustion
or sleepless nights on granite slabs.