Crowley on a moonlit ledge
at the highest camp, drawing a pistol on a friend.
By some magic trick, he must know
The mountain's intent: to crush our bones under massive sheets of ice,
So he stays out of the cold,
Where presently,
From the broken face above comes a thunderous boom
As under glacial robes the mountain seems to move,
Writhing itself free from our ropes, from which we now
dangle uselessly in the black, curling sky.
How does the wind make sails on the horizon bow?
While somewhere else its fall and a gust of leaves are given back to
the base of the trees,
And the rope comes taught and drags me into a sea of white,
And in that sea I swim for life?
Old mountainside,
Can you feel me clinging to you?
What of the life I lead beneath?
Down amongst the tiny trees and buildings?
Never you return me to the world of things.
Crowley having nightmares of tumbling from the face
Rattling his body like the bars of a cage.
at the highest camp, drawing a pistol on a friend.
By some magic trick, he must know
The mountain's intent: to crush our bones under massive sheets of ice,
So he stays out of the cold,
Where presently,
From the broken face above comes a thunderous boom
As under glacial robes the mountain seems to move,
Writhing itself free from our ropes, from which we now
dangle uselessly in the black, curling sky.
How does the wind make sails on the horizon bow?
While somewhere else its fall and a gust of leaves are given back to
the base of the trees,
And the rope comes taught and drags me into a sea of white,
And in that sea I swim for life?
Old mountainside,
Can you feel me clinging to you?
What of the life I lead beneath?
Down amongst the tiny trees and buildings?
Never you return me to the world of things.
Crowley having nightmares of tumbling from the face
Rattling his body like the bars of a cage.