Poem: Quarry Walking

Quarry Walking

It is hot,
and your muscles,
no longer young,
feel the effort of climbing,
yet another mountain
senselessly standing
in your path,
another wall of slate,
grey, harsh and hot
from the day's sun,
edges sharp and shifting,
unstable ground
that echoes through the quarry
as if falls under your feet.

Steam rises, remnants
of last night's rain,
now filling the air
with breath robbing moisture
that mingles with your sweat
in the late May sun.

You climb,
not because you have
any sense
of a destination. No,
that belief, that there is a place
of rest,
left you years go, and now
you climb
because it is all you know, because
the sweat and aches,
the cuts on your hands
and heavy breath
tell you
you are still alive.

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The picture is from the slate quarry in West Pawlet, taken a month or so ago when my son was visiting. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom