Cold.
Wet.
We struggle a few yards.
We both want it to happen
And happen it does.
I cling to the grey rock
And arch my back
I turn around and grasp it again.
The wind blows
As you come in closer
You ask me to look around.
And then it is finished.
It is over.
But then the blue.
The simple, stately blue of my body and the rocks.
Arrives later, much later.
It has a majesty that is unsurpassed,