Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro

The garden zone was friendly,

and the forest zone -cool. Night fell too soon,

and the steeply sloped rain forest with their servant hills,

slipped beneath us, in the dark.

I fought my way up, headlamp illuminating,

all ‘round me the sounds of leopards, snakes,

geography confused in this primordial forest,

where life is what springs from decay.

We camped, and stripped to nakedness,

trying to rebuild our shattered spirits

with folded clothes and tea.

Sleep came uninvited, like a burglar

silently stealing half finished cups from sudden limp arms.

Next morning, saw the departure of those who could

take no more of this risk route,

trip turned to hard task,

each day life thinning out,

nothing left to be shared.

Pollo, pollo . . . . slowly, slowly.

And then we left the earth.

There could now be no rescue now . . . even helicopters

need air to fly.

On we climbed, and lungs breathed normally,

but our tired muscles never received relief,

and not a sound, other than those you made your self,

not even an  echo, to keep an empty skull company.

We were now beyond the zone of life.

Beneath us, jets like pond skaters

criss-crossing the pond that was Africa,

and the curve of the world lay below

and beyond.

On the last night, we tricked the mountain,

using its frozen shale, to climb when she slept.

By the time the sun had risen, we had reached her top,

standing ragged for our moments glory,

each a god among men,

albeit with feet of clay.

Descent was by the coca cola route,

and with each thousand metres we fell,

fresh tears came

as emotion, and life, and oxygen returned.

I called your name to save me,

but even my footsteps
you had already erased.

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014