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.