The Poet and the Mountain

 

Few people come this way. The path is steep and winding. It is a rare day when the wind does not blow or the mountain summits are cloud clear. This is a place for the goats and ravens, not us human kind. Yet I am here. And today the sky is as blue as an eye.

The way down is more perilous than the way up. Bilberry bushes cover the rocks, hiding small crevasses. One slip is all it would take.

I have already passed the high lake. I do not hurry. The silence is stony deep.

She is dressed in a rose-print blouse and a pale blue skirt. As soon as we are within speaking distance I say hello. It is customary to greet everyone on these mountains.

‘Such a rare and beautiful afternoon.’

‘Yes,’ she says. Not a flicker of a smile passes her lips.

‘What brings you here?’

She focuses her gaze on the grey mountain peak behind me and runs her fingers through her cropped blonde hair. ‘I do not know this place.’

‘Perhaps not. This is a place of wild goats and poets.’

She meets my eyes before staring at the mountain again. ‘Is that so?’

‘I have heard it said.’

‘As you are not a goat I presume you must be a poet.’ She laughs. The sound is like the small streams that bubble down this steep slope.

‘I find poetry in these mountains. Whether that makes me a poet or not, I do not know.’

‘I say you are indeed a poet. However, you must please excuse me. I must be on my way.’

My watch reads three-fifteen. As it is midsummer the light will stay until the late evening. ‘You should take the track across there.’ I point to the north-west. ‘After that you will come to the high lake. From the lake a distinct path takes you down along the side of the river.’

She thanks me. Before she sets off I ask, ‘What is your final destination?’

She looks me in the eye. Her own eyes are the colour of the high lake. ‘That is not for me to determine,’ she says.

I stay awhile, watching her thread her way up the slope, until she turns the corner and is out of sight.

A raven passes overhead. After it too has vanished I hear a long and lonely sound and I shiver, despite the warmth.

by Bronwen Griffiths