Summit, The

After the switchbacks climbing end pine woods,

after the autumn-muted meadow, grass

and saxifrage, stone and then more rock, after

the rain, after the wind-shot pellet of snow,

wondering if we could make it, heads bent, hats

and glove and parkas hoar-frosted the last heave

to the rubble tip of cloud-occlud scree

viewless, we caught our breath and started down,

and would retain of this single the ache

of feet and limbs, small phantoms of the climb,

the devoid of warmth [i]or[/i] heat the hasty handshake at the top,

a strange nostalgia for the fear we'd felt

DAVID MASON's line of poetry novel, Ludlow, will appear early nearest year from Red Hen Pres

Copyright Hudson Review Summer 2006

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