Boot Hill

I woke up thinking about mountains and how I’d love to compose a pome about a mountain, a loved one, and me – this is a diversion in a kinda loose sonnetry stylee 🙂

—————————————————————————————————–

Boot Hill

Since man ‘conquered’ Chumo-Langma,

prayer flags still flap and temple bells chime praises.

A defile of climbers queues ‘to summit’ and

transmit a video to family and chums,

‘Top of the World! The view is awesome!’

If cylinders register ‘Oxygen low’

the breathless curse the cold-slow climb-down,

stagger the waste of ice-block corpses,

squat in the litter of trail mix wrappers

to send a ‘Goodbye. Love you,’ call.

Batteries fade, signals fail.  Sobbed replies,

‘We will never forget you,’ go unheard.

The patient mountain stands waiting. Waiting

for peace to return – then unearth its hymns again.