Tuesday, September 11, 2012

An M.S. Journey

I'm reluctantly lurching

up a steep spiralling road;

the summit is cloud-hidden,

the valleys billowing with fog.

Nearly half a lifetime journey

and I still don't know how far I've come.

There are no longer signposts,

shelters, lookout places, and the air

is becoming rarefied.

What should be an outward view

is only a smudge; at times,

below me, there's a landslide.

Whenever I try and rest,

the weather turns aggressive:

driving sleet and angry wind.

I have no choice but to stumble on.
There are no words to describe

the loneliness, the dereliction.

1 comment:

  1. Once Paul and I went walking in the Pyrénées so early in the season that the red splashes on the trees to show the way were not yet repainted after the hard winter. All we could do, having found ourselves away from any hint of civilisation (even the shepherds' huts were still boarded up), was to go from tree to tree. Paul would walk ahead and find the next marked tree, while I would wait at the last marker. He would then call me on. Trouble is, I could barely hear him, let alone see him as, apart from the distance, the mist was swirling around and yes, the air was rarefied too. I do feel for you Diana, it's a so much more horrible feeling for you. Would there were some markers, or even a shepherd's hut with a warm fire and a pot of soup every now and again.