The Climber

(for my grandfather)

The slow

climb upward, out

of himself, into the clarity

of air remembered, tries his patience,

bends him double, breathless,

cuts, with the rungs

into his hands, dizzies him.

mornings, holding a cup

of cold coffee at the window

looking into the green

depths of the wood, sorting

the images; what he sees,

what he dreamed. This is the last

stage, the steepest terrain,

the strangest country.

He no longer remembers

what he has left, useless, broken,

behind him,  among his lost

comrades, among his dead

loves. Now he has turned

toward a brightness, the glow

he senses ahead, inside,

with the visions he discovers

in old age. Words escape him,

floating, disconnected,

across an emptiness so huge

he cannot imagine its end.

Pride has left him, prowess

is gone, no messages come

offering company or hope.

Yet he is happy. Astonished,

he deepens his solitude,

pulls in the lines, turns off

the phone, cancels the paper.

When the day ends, silencing

the house, he makes a fire,

melts into the darkness,

lifts his head up and sees,

shining ahead: the light,

the brightness of light,

the long day we call forever.

*

The Light

The light

fills him, rising

from inside, meeting, halfway,

the outer, the bright shell of the world,

its great sphere reduced

to the garden, the specificity

of each flower, the single

humming-bird on the shimmery air,

the injured cat who moves

slowly along the paths,

limping and wary. Time

does come round, returning,

and morning dazzles his eye,

the twisted oaks in the wood

creating tunnels of darkness

only the eye and small creatures

inhabit. This is his country,

grown bright in freedom,

where the bridge of is

leads over the abyss

and into the garden of gods.

Here: gems, gold and the Forms,

unbroken, original in splendor,

the remnants of Creation

caught on the fly, transfigured,

as bright as if they were new...

Can one dwell here, forever?

Or is this only a spasm, a glimpse

of the landscape ahead, an emptiness

brimming with light? Cry out

the question. No-one replies.

The cat has rounded a corner, is now

out of sight. The humming-bird

has vanished. The brightness

of the morning, as if behind his eyes,

lingers when he turns away.

--Peter Marin