He had a love of wild places,

high places, open spaces,

where the sun would warm your back,

but the wind would skin you.

Mountain tops with no one there,

and air so fresh and free

you’d want to breathe it forever.

At first I fought the treks,

defiant, stubborn as he

until sights became landscapes

worthy of old masters,

outweighed the slog.

I went when he could not,

not able for it, but still my tales

would light his eyes, shared

memories of times

that neither would forget.