Johnny Dawes |
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| Chris Deacon |
| The Roaches, green, wet underneath and
carpeted with pine needles. Sheltered boulders luminous among the trees, lichen blooming. You have to pick your spot now, go where the rock is exposed, has no place to hide and the lichen is denied. The wind finds you here at any time of year but you are assured of clean dry rock. Walkers walk, birds burst from the heather, grouse and goldfinch. Go to Doxy’s pool or the skyline boulders, cleaned, swept but with wet toes, the wind at your back to support you. Beautiful slabs, look behind you, Wings of Unreason, Track of the Cat, climb them another day. Find a rock on the floor and sit down, put on and squeak your boots, stretch, breathe and touch the rock. Something friendly to begin with, lippy jugs, easy smears, warm through and pull on these, move with no fear, reach the top and breathe clear air. Bend and swing down, down to the base of the rocks. Pick another, climb it. Smaller holds now, better, this is good. Crimp, that’s poor, crimp harder, snatch your foot up, ahh, fear, snatch, top. Let the wind roll you over the edge, lie on your back, look at the sky, clouds move quickly. Listen, you can hear the world turning. © Chris Deacon 2002. |