The Cliff

Dad negotiated the difficult bit with a grunt,
A shower of soil tumbling down after him.
I was eleven, waiting at the bottom,
The rock face too smooth to climb
With no nooks and no crannies,
Not even a stray tree root to grab hold of.
Squatting on the ledge above,
One arm hanging down,
He silently pulled me up to
The bit which I could climb unaided.
His hand was rough as bark, cold as stone.
From here it was a swift ascent in seven moves,
Accomplished before he could pull me up
On the dangers of rushing things.
At the top I kept conversation
To a minimum, letting him smoke
A cigarette while I turned my face
To catch the breath I'd lost.
I thought about the journey down,
How I'd slide the last bit,
Tumble if necessary, and let
The undergrowth break my fall.