The Col

Ahead, the path surrenders
to the tilt and thrust of granite,
the prowling clouds.
Somewhere up there
a hut and the warm fug
of fellow travellers
cursing the treachery of bodies,
opening their hearts
as strangers will,
heady with relief
that they are not among
the missing.
Another level gained, but
here for the first time
I feel old.

 
Behind, the twist and plummet
of the track, the valley
patched in miniature
with green and gold.
Like the contrail overhead
my life streams backwards,
purposeful at first,
then dissipating in a shoal
of fluffy nothings.
Beneath my feet
a seething mass of magma
seeks a fault-line. The air
is thinning, the future
is a hard climb, and this
another false col.
 

Elisabeth Rowe

published in collection, Timewise, 2019, Oversteps Books,
ISBN 978-1-906856-84-7