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The Buchaille

Each vertebrae and tendon

is stretched taut

in the ascent.

Movement hugged

into the spirit

from whence it came,

each manoeuvre,

like a tune

or a tiny word

that moves the moment upward,

harnessing the fears

pitted against the rock.

The skies begin to darken.

hands caress the silky rock

feel the rope’s friction

in the spit of rain,

securing the next handhold

with a deeper

strength, a closer

sense of unity with the stone.

Pushing upwards

the air below empties,

thins and falls away

as the summit

brings us up,

alive.



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