It is not the cold that makes me tremble
But the oneness.
The feeling of completion that rises up,
Stealthy as mountain ghosts,
From my mud-blacked boots
To the crown of my wind-blown head.
The waspish rain has power in it, too.
It flies at my face and stings my reddened eyes,
Forcing them half-closed, but open all the more
To the part-seen, part-sensed mountain all around.
Nothing from the everyday is here.
All clamour from the valley roads is drowned.
Ready to hear older sounds, I stand.
The wind around the finger-post of stone,
The stealthy lapwing, mewing in the sedge,
And bracken whispering like waves upon a beach.
It is a fossil from another age, this pointing stone,
A trapped reminder, held in rocks and peat,
That we are small and time is big
And wind and weather always were and are.

updated by @americymru: 11/29/17 05:17:02PM