Low Winds
Pebbly scree slides and crabwalks me
inside a dim dunk of fog.
I should not have climbed,
should have waited for the sky to clear its eyes
but I was anxious to reach a height that day.
I took the Arimathea way.
I’m beat and disorientated,
falling down while still upright,
feeling a momentum sliding me over
an unseen cliff face.
I see only a vaporous fear
swirling out of my open mouth.
The chill hand of fate grips.
Beyond my funk
I hear someone behind me
Sitting on the cold stones, boot heels
wedged into the rocky scrabble,
I wait to be rescued by a more clear-eyed self.
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