Unknown Mountain

I stand on the flat-marsh, observe the

holy mountain - a cathedral

of earth and stone moulded by

God’s forefinger and thumb.

Through my father’s eye-glass I follow

its transepts and crossings, watch the shifting

cloud embalm its astounding

white peak.

I vow to climb it, of course -  (novice and lost soul,

solitary pilgrim of chronic under- nourishment

and dis-belief.)

My psychiatrist says life will change.

“Your head will dizzy itself with pure devotion.”

Follow a well-worn track; don’t look down -

just some of the advice I long

to be given.

I go into the village. I buy new boots.

(Preparation, so I’ve heard when climbing

mountains, is everything.) The shop girl

who ministers to my feet

confesses to being a sceptic where climbing

is concerned. “Mountains are unknown.

You too are unknown. I can tell by the boots you’ve chosen.

Your ankles need more protection.”

Everyone, it seems, is a mountain expert.

Even the old woman who sits  beside me on the bus.

“Take a map” she says. “My husband, poor sod that he is,

forgot. And look at him now.”

On the side of the bus is written:

“We are all unknown until we kneel

and ask forgiveness at the

mountain’s peak.”

I stand on the flatmarsh. I walk towards

the holy mountain. My boots are new.  My rucksack

is full. I am moulded by God’s forefinger

and thumb.