Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
The narrow path towards Mt Toolbrunup
inclines through fragrant green enclosing wood.
He forged ahead, I kept up best I could.
A tumbled boulder slope leads ever up.
A wall of shale and quartzite borders right
and white mist tendrils slipped across its face.
I turned for one last gaze, as cool embrace
of cloud bathed all things near in pallid light.
The peak was wrapped in solitary peace.
We sat on massive thicket creviced slabs,
all patched with hard white crinkled lichen scabs,
in arbitrary mountain clime's caprice.
I lingered when he left for just a while,
a space to sample isolation's charms.
Then down the slick wet rocks ungainly style,
discreet descent on rear end, heels and palms.
We missed the view and so we have avowed
to reach that veiled unbounded space again
and maybe if we're fortunate, well then…
once more, we'll sit within a mountain's cloud.
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