This is the third poem in my series ‘The Climber’. Links to the other 2 can be found at the bottom of the page.
He breathes climbing.
He eats and sleeps climbing.
Hell, I guess he even farts climbing.
His would be the van you didn’t notice,
Parked unobtrusively in the farthest corner.
His, the life pared down to the bare minimum.
If asked, he might condescend to teach for a day,
To earn enough to buy some food.
For a week or more.
Or perhaps to go towards that new rope
That he really ought to get.
But he will resent the waste of his time,
When he might be climbing.
Just as he will, too, on those days when
The rain just falls and falls.
And he sits frustrated beneath the shelter,
Dispensing good advice and
Recounting adventures
To anyone who will listen.
Or muttering ‘Perhaps we should all move
To Spain, or Yosemite,
To somewhere it doesn’t rain
All the bloody time.’
But when the weather clears
His good humour will return
And he will be back on the crag.
Climbing any route you care to suggest.
Links:
Mick Canning 