Two hours out of the village
I´d climbed the mountain´s shaded side
two months deeper into winter.
Coarse grass was brown, ground water
had flowed over the path
and frozen. I stopped.
The smooth sheet sloped down,
curled round the overhang, drips
falling onto rocks in the gully.
I put one foot on the ice,
shifted my weight, hesitated,
then moved my other foot forward.
Five steps carried me over, my pulse racing.
I stood on the brink, dislodging pebbles
and knew I had no way back.
As I climbed higher, peaks
reared up behind the black
ridgeback. Cresting it,
I toppled into the new view. Bank
behind bank of ice anchored on stone
all the way to
The village I´d left,
tethered to the foothills
by a winding cord of tarmac.