The Climber

How steep the slab above the overhang
seems from my httle stance beside the lip.
For forty feet, so far as I can see
the holds are slight, mere shadows on the face.

Below my heels the crag drops to the scree.
Far, far below the stream glints in the sun,
sending faint murmurs through the quiet air.
Shadows of clouds chase across distant hills.

Once on the slab the butterflies
that gnawed my stomach fade
and calculating calmly I can weigh
each move unflurried by the grip of nerves.

Smoothly I shift my weight from toe to toe.
Splayed finger tips now near, now reaching far
for sustenance, until, by movement
imperceptible, I gain a httle height.

Now comes the crux, with nought but pressure hold
a balanced lift by muscles smooth and slow,
a gentle press of fingers on to rock.
My whole world centred on the next few feet.

I do not think of all the years when I,
on training bent, made my reluctant limbs
go where I willed up crag and sliding scree
until they ached and threatened to give in.

This is my harvest. Here on this sunny day,
poised upon meagre holds, high on the slab
with sinews, balance, nerves working in tune
I would not change my place with any man

H. L. S.