Climbing on Dartmoor.
The tor stands tall against the sky,
The granite grates the hands that grasp
the rock. The wriggle up the crack,
broken by ice, bridged by feet braced hard
against the wall, across the gap.
Sliding a jot, sucking a breath, slurping a gasp,
of air, of oxygen, inflating the lungs, enriching the blood.
At one with the rock, at peace with the world.
This is the way it all should be, this is what it means to me.
To struggle, to climb, to overcome
gravity, granite, weakness denied.
Feeling strong, feeling good, feeling moor.
The tor stands tall against the sky.
Indifferent.
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