Early morning slog up steepness
mantled in mist, moist droplets
dripping from our brows, our noses.
Breathless lest we are too slow,
too late for our own lives.
Cloud-vapour thins as we ascend,
like dry-ice after the show begins,
until we are in clear crystal light,
a low tow-maned sun behind us
as we stand on the cliff-edge peak.
Islands of hill tops bob above
each valley’s ocean of dense whiteness
where tendril waves end at our toes.
And there are our shadowed selves,
long-legged giants projected out
and away for mile upon mile,
stretched and flung across this sea
by broad prismatic sun-shafts.
We hold hands, leap, shadow-box.
We wave like welcoming children.
Brocken Spectres! It sounds like
some Gothic novel alpine fantasia.
But there are our rainbow haloes,
there our aura-throbbing glories.
Raggedy crows fly up from the brume,
disappearing slowly down again
like shiny black fish rising for food.
Our shadows are still huge, needle-sharp,
on time, punctual for this moment
as hand-in-hand we move together,
from broken to mended.