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Into
the
Mountain
Mist
We
tread high ridges at our will,
Free
in the lucent air,
Out
eagle gaze untrammelled, till
Mist’s
probing fingers, damp and chill,
Cobweb
our lips and hair.
(The
old, blind spirit of the hill
Inquiring
who goes there?).
Soon,
cloistered in the clinging shade,
We
stumble, no more free.
Amorphous
shadows loom and fade:
Ambiguous
shapes made and unmade
Are
all we seem to see.
(And
while our senses are betrayed
Where,
but in dreams, are we?).
Time
will resolve our present plight;
Hold
fast to what we know.
Steer
carefully towards the light
For
lower down the world is bright
(Thrilling
to face the mountain’s might,
Wise
to retire below).
1969
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