This last week.
The experimental jet screamed into the clouds across the mountains.
I painted you into the landscape from memory
From on high I watched the ghost of a friend walk across the end of the silvered loch
I climbed the black crag in the massacre glen
and I did not feel like coming down.
I lay in the sculpted snow on the crag summit
and found it so easy to fall asleep, saying no more is useful
the strings of an orchestra played through my ears in technology concerned with
losing the sound of aircraft booming.
The clouds gathered like ominous periwigs colluding in a court of old men
The old snow snapped beneath the weight of my stalking slowly
as rocking I peregrinated across a knife edge a thousand feet from anywhere
It darkened and began to snow.
My friends ghost walked with me for a while before giving in to temptation
and shouted murder the thousand foot drop to nowhere.
Clouds water fell down the mountain and blackbirds with red bills surf rode the edges
liquid choughing their chuckling sounds of high delight
There is a rock up there that belongs to me and is immortal
if it changes then so do I. It is still up there. You can see it from here usually.
I talked to your memory image and worked out why you do not wish to speak of love any more.
Because you have not been given permission by the feelings that rule.
But still I painted. And still I wondered from summit to foot.
Wind froze and carpet snow swirled, displaying and lifting its skirts for all to see.
I sweated beneath my waterproof. Eating was a hand full of cold snow mushed with dead flowers.
Drinking was the same. Ten year old mature single snow.
One booted footprint that could be today or Arctic man Friday weeks ago but is not mine.
Drawing across the virgin on to the flat surface of the ridiculous and laughing at the stupid, suspect, play on words.
Phone beeped as jet returned and I could not hear the conversation. Wondered if it was you. Then decided it was not.
I scree jumped down. All the way down careless and unconcerned. Nothing that I wanted to happened. Even your landscape painting remained safe. The music in my ears roared louder until I stopped it.
© Copyright 2016 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.
Poem / Commercial Fiction
Book / Memoir
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