The Native

I struggle up, toward the crag,
calloused hands slippery on jagged
rock, my legs pulling me down, not
pushing me up towards the top.
Ten tonnes of nothing in my bag;
half rations and my little flag,
my blood type on a metal tag.
I must keep going, mustn’t stop.
I struggle up.

The wind throws up a jet black rag,
a hawk whose call sounds like a brag,
who does not fear the endless drop
but rides the wind of mountaintops
in lightning strikes, while I zigzag
and struggle up.