Amazing how the night cools
after the heat of the sun;
These slabs creak and crack with age, and dying
create new fissures for us to place
our chock-nuts, set the slings for ropes:
safety-points for us to climb higher without fear
of unstopped falls.
We know now, David, that goats do slip,
age has made us slower to trust in blind leaps.
Each day we climb
closer to the blue heavens
of Icarus and Olympia,
crossing slabs like crabs
feet edging more sideways than forwards,
our feet marking each foothold, ledge, burr,
preparing to hold fast
should the ground slip
quick as a Judas-gate from under us;
the cascading shards of stone in crystal tines,
shattered lines of broken faith,
schisms in the rock,
breaking away from the old core’s face;
turning back to rubble on the scree below.