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The Climber

To keep going or to drop with a sigh
Into the soft snow of oblivion?
That is the choice. And yet what choice have I?
I must keep moving on until I die.

Below me, roped together, are the ones
I best love in this world. They urge me on,
Their cries sharp as a whiplash. The sweat runs,
Blinding me. How can I let down my sons?

Sometimes the weather clears and far below
I see the plains ... what brought us to this height?
The bones of fallen climbers shine like snow,
And I secure each foothold as I go.

In my exhaustion it has sometimes seemed
That we were climbing up the face of God,
And that the water falling on us streamed
From his eyes ... but I woke and knew I dreamed,

And wept bitterly, though I hid my tears,
Pretending to be gay when I despaired.
My children climb the mountains unawares,
As eagerly as up a flight of stairs.

Thus would I have it. Time enough to learn
That the mountain is a lie, that the best
Climb hopefully towards nothing, and yearn
For summits that are bare. Why not return
To the fat plains below? It is too late.
Once you set out there is no turning back.
I test the ropes and curiously elate.
With bleeding hands climb upwards to my fate.

Alistair Te Ariki Campbell