The Old Hills Say

even lying like that,
prone on a rope charpoy,
under the poker faced sky,
that flared above the cursive green of the
slumbering Nilgiri hills,
she thought
he seemed like a hawk,
slipping through the octaves of the sun,
the infinite converging into a secret song
he carried on his blood-stained lips;

at dawn they had followed an uphill trail,
through the frowning jungle,
when they saw the elephant in a clearing,
the canopy striping gold on his magnificent tusks;
they seemed to have a moment,
negotiating in a strange language without syllables,
until the animal waved his trunk in disdain
and disappeared into the trees;

but we’re stardust after all,
she told him,
with wordless memories of our first home,
finding our own little Everest to climb,
so we can be worthy of the journey,
so we will have an answer for the earth
when she presses her ear close
to our untethered hearts;
I have to go,
because it’s there,
because it waits,
because every moment I hear it scream my name;

he turned to watch her face,
as if he lifted a wing and blocked the sun,
circling slowly in the new shadows;
go if you must, he offered,
gather your gear in the folds of your heart
and ascend to your goal,
his smile hovered in the heat,
these hills are wise, you know,
I’ve heard them say,
don’t climb too high,
for you may pluck coloured stars
to weave into your hair,
and walk in the gardens of the moon
where she is neither dark nor bright,
but meanwhile
the cloud on which you built your castle
might float away
silently
beneath your feet;

she could see the sky wrinkle
its azure forehead,
the old hills shrugged and
rolled their eyes,
somewhere a pachyderm chortled,
as the air exhaled,
pulling back its shoulders,
making way for the swoop
of a prescient bird,
homing in on its unsuspecting prey.

“Because it’s there” – George Mallory

For Poets United where the midweek prompt is “Mountain”.