The Mountain
(for Alice-Mary)
Pushing out together,
from beneath a caul of dew,
On that morning,
I sought to keep a promise
matured with years.
Together we would climb a mountain.
I pushed away my stiffness.
Together we waded lightly through grass.
When we began the ascent
you ran past me,
skipping in the low places,
not wanting
nor heeding my warning.
A smile was sufficient
to displace my irritation
at advice thrown lightly away.
And we rested together
on a plateau.
Together now,
more slowly
we made our way.
When the mist threatened
and the descent began,
there was nobody to whom I could tell my
own terror.
The words were for myself.
The gaze must never be downwards.
You were a voice I sought
as I struggled to reach again
that place of levelled rock
where I hoped to draw on your strength.
The benefit of touch would be mine,
unlike that time of equals
on our ascent,
and, when I reached it,
you had gone on,
confident.
I trembled.
I was afraid
of the truth that was now
inescapable.
My descent would be alone.
Our journeys together
would end.
Soon, I would not tackle any ascent.
But, standing still,
watching you, loose-limbed and free,
know my daughter
that I would give you
my share of fields
and even those times I saw the sun
break open the leaden lid
of a day,
half-dead with rain,
with a shaft of light.
Oh my daughter,
beyond the mist
any my private terror,
you must sing
for us both.
Michal D. Higgins
from 'The Season of Fire' (1993)