Boot Hill

I woke up thinking about mountains and how I'd love to compose a pome about a mountain, a loved one, and me - this is a diversion in a kinda loose sonnetry stylee :)

 

Boot Hill

 

Since man ‘conquered’ Chumo-Langma,

prayer flags still flap and temple bells chime praises.

 

A defile of climbers queues ‘to summit’ and

transmit a video to family and chums,

 

‘Top of the World, Ma! The view is awesome!’

 

If cylinders register ‘Oxygen low’

the breathless curse the cold-slow climb-down,

stagger the waste of ice-block corpses,

squat in the litter of trail mix wrappers

 

to send a ‘Goodbye. Love you,’ call.

 

Batteries fade, signals fail.  Sobbed replies,

‘We will never forget you,’ go unheard.

 

The patient mountain stands waiting. Waiting

for peace to return – then unearth its hymns again.

 

 

 

 

◄ A Day Out With Aoife

Ugly Until ►

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