Coming Down
Pebbly scree slides and crabwalks
inside a dim dunk of fog.
The cragsman should not have climbed,
should have waited for the sky to clear its eyes
but anxious to reach a height that day
he took the Arimathea way.
Beat and disorientated,
falling down while still upright,
the press of a remorseless momentum
marches stumbling feet
toward an unseen cliff face.
Only this vaporous fear
swirling out of an open mouth -
a chill wraith invading every thought.
Beyond the funk
numb ears dimly hear someone
following.
Boot heels wedged into the rocky scrabble,
sitting now on the cold stones,
the climber waits to be rescued
by a more clear-eyed self.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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