The path has become a stream
and every descent a river
as the ground cannot cope with excess water.
We are not prevented from climbing, however,
only my thoughts of inadequacy and
incapability will do that.
The morning is unusually warm.
The ascent is peppered with many breaks
to revel in outstanding views
and catch the breath.
The hillside appears to be rusting
from an overlay of dying bracken.
The tarn is gentle, quiet,
reflecting welcome sunshine and minimal clouds.
The force of the waterfall excludes all other sounds,
even the wind cannot penetrate
the power of rushing water.
We meditate here
and lose ourselves to its power and force.
The stone pathway is a delight of colours
slate grey, burnished red, cold blue, warmer cream.
Each stone speaks of history,
each footstep a sense of humility
as we contemplate the formation
of this mountain,
its immense lifespan.
The water finds its way down any descent,
the mountain is undisturbed
by its passage,
by our footfall,
by anything nature hurls down on it.
We are touched by this gentle giant,
accepting all and rejecting none,
offering beauty, solace, rest and
its own poetry
to the joyful traveller.
© 27 Feb 2014
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