Estes Park, Colorado . . . more years ago than I really want to count.




Edge of a Precipice

The ridge thrusts its black oblique

Into the cold and cloudless sky,

Ripping the air, tatters of wind,

Throwing them to the valley below.

 

There is no sound but the rush

Of blood and our breath, both thick

With effort and the pain of thin air.

(Perhaps I am too old for this, for you)

 

As we crawl to the edge of our courage,

Birds and scrub trees far beneath us,

Holding the moment and each other,

Here where the world ends, or begins.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 455 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2011-12-13 at 16:03

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Nathalia
Lovely!
2011-12-25


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the front page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry web site.
2011-12-19


Rob Graber
A poem of stark beauty and power; like the moment so well evoked, simply unforgettable!
2011-12-15



A splendid piece, Mr Fog.
I do not know the location myself, but you describe with such eloquence that I picture it clearly.
My lady admires it also, though of late it seems she dwells rather within a gloomy canyon.
Applaudeth.
2011-12-13