POEMS/ Reflections on Climbing Ayer's Rock
Reflections on Climbing Ayer's Rock
It is not the great red sandstone rock itself
that terrifies, though the way it rises like a mighty island
from the dry and barren plain impresses,
not its height or girth, nor its isolation,
not its age or geological origin.
No! but there’s a power in the rock,
you do not feel when you begin. You think
it’s just a rock, a giant sandstone
rock, another climb you want to make and will.
You’ll take a picture at the top and show it
to your friends. You’re not afraid.
It’s not the warning signs you’ve read below,
the lists of those who’ve fallen to their deaths--
you’ve climbed before, have stood on canyon rims,
walked paths too narrow for a mountain goat.
You know the risks. You’ve never fallen.
You think it’s just an ordinary climb.
It’s not. It is not the going up the naked trail,
the hand rope you must stoop to reach,
or the way the bending slope offers no place
to catch you if you slip,
but half way up, you sense a force
that wants you down.
You’ve read the sign
which tells you the aborigines
will not climb this rock
and hold it sacred, its trail a dream track
only spirits walk. For them
the great rock’s name is Uluru.
It’s not that you’re a coward, not
that you believe in spirits. You don’t!
But you have felt a sudden earthquake
in your heart, a trembling weakness in your in your legs,
and a hand that wants to push you off.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)
It is not the great red sandstone rock itself
that terrifies, though the way it rises like a mighty island
from the dry and barren plain impresses,
not its height or girth, nor its isolation,
not its age or geological origin.
No! but there’s a power in the rock,
you do not feel when you begin. You think
it’s just a rock, a giant sandstone
rock, another climb you want to make and will.
You’ll take a picture at the top and show it
to your friends. You’re not afraid.
It’s not the warning signs you’ve read below,
the lists of those who’ve fallen to their deaths--
you’ve climbed before, have stood on canyon rims,
walked paths too narrow for a mountain goat.
You know the risks. You’ve never fallen.
You think it’s just an ordinary climb.
It’s not. It is not the going up the naked trail,
the hand rope you must stoop to reach,
or the way the bending slope offers no place
to catch you if you slip,
but half way up, you sense a force
that wants you down.
You’ve read the sign
which tells you the aborigines
will not climb this rock
and hold it sacred, its trail a dream track
only spirits walk. For them
the great rock’s name is Uluru.
It’s not that you’re a coward, not
that you believe in spirits. You don’t!
But you have felt a sudden earthquake
in your heart, a trembling weakness in your in your legs,
and a hand that wants to push you off.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)