Reading 29 - Toubkal
Toubkal
In this orange-brown heft of corrie and ridge,
Of towering peak and crystal high,
We taste the fresh melt-ice,
And feel the sharp of air and sky.
Reckless young gully-snipes, eagle-feathered,
Running the sheer-scree slopes,
Limbs desperate for speed and control,
Like skiing, the glory of the loose stones,
All noise and turbulent flow.
In full blood-thunder hurl,
Our mares' tails flying,
Staccato on-white-water in our sliding.
Rock on hard rock!
Body-shapes thrown in cremated air!
The acute pitch and jar of our jiving.
Our chorus; of kittiwakes in gliding.
Caught on the curl of a hawk's upswept wing,
Salt-lips and skerries pounding,
We catch our breathless breath, and grin,
And plunge again, wildly downhill.
Tripping wearily, footsore and paining,
Aching and exhausted, phlogisten seeping,
Lost in the low valley roads.
Hungry, with some friction between us,
Waiting for the bus to Salvation,
That never came.
