Dream Bivouac

I’ve almost reached the peak

just beyond this sheer cliff.

I glimpse a dark-haired young

woman at the top, staring

intently at what must be

a stupendous view.  I’m not

pausing here to catch my breath

in this rarefied air or

because I’m itching with sweat.

I’m simply relishing the solitude

this stark space

only ancient rocks holding me

in a silent communion, so deep

and rich it seeps into my cells,

changing me.  That woman is still

rapt and in theory, she must see past

mountain ranges to blue ocean.

So I reach for handholds and hang

on this rock face, and I realize

I need help.

A thick rope dangles

near.  I test it and

a man’s head appears,

offers a brawny arm, plucks

me from my peril.

The tantalizing world

spreads like an offering.

Complete with a crowd

ascending

an easy path

steps carved into the mountain.

Mothers are chiding rapscallion

children peering over the edge.

I raise my lens to capture

the haphazard rubble, foundation

blocks discarded under an arch

of a bridge.  I find the lines

pull me.  My camera seizes.

My batteries are depleted.

I commit this view

to memory

as I begin my descent.

 

Inspired by:  Theory, Air, Rapscallion and Itching.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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