Mountains
by Peter Howitt
The mountains never judge us,
I am comforted by the objectivity of the danger awaiting.
To know whatever punishment it may mete out is impersonal.
Even the best make mistakes,
Today novice and expert are equals,
Equally fallible in the face of impassive beauty.
The lake reflects a troubled sky,
The cold sting blast of troughing waters
Sharpens the senses.
Clouds mass and loiter as we pick our way
Along a path littered with sheep droppings.
The way faintly marked by the footfalls perhaps of our ancestors.
I scramble above slippery stone towards the summit,
Wind whipped snow mirrors the frenzy at my core.
At peak, dead calm.
Snow lies sculpted like sand dunes.
A wondrous alien quiet releases me from worldly worry,
As the sun etches our outline on virgin snow
Our laughter rebounds around the plateau.
I indulge my childish playfulness,
Happy to tumble today on a bed of snow.
The struggle for this contentment
Makes it all the more worth having
I am invited, for a moment, to be kinder to myself.
Descending, a breath taking vista opens up,
From ochre oozing hills to the distant sea.
The years have been kind to this massif
The solitary reality of its existence
And my flitting joy as I slide ground ward makes sense.
I pray the years may be, kind to us all.
Keep us safe on our climbs
And let judgement not sit too heavy on us.
Make us strong and wise enough:
To weather the storms when we return,
To understand the reasons for our return.
The mountains do not judge us
And will not judge our children,
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