Of Mattie and a Mountain

The cry of a buzzard
to its mate accentuates
the stony silence

broken only
by our footsteps
on the scree.

Coming down, far
harder than going up.
You froze
on that hairpin bend;

the mist...like a whispered
prayer, swirled around,
and just the scent
of the trees made you
carry on...

The clearing
where you danced...
your feet
through the peat
and dried needles

like little besom
brooms,
beating time
to the music of life.

A slight softness
underfoot – the rasping
gone, and later
when we got home

the smell of
pine-cones
on the stove
embraced
your hair
and your sweater...

Not only
mountains
we climbed
that day.