I stood amazed,
sensing the crater's old immensity.
The arc of hidden cliff
crumples towards the east.
Grass, heather and young fern
flood in and green
the broken cauldron's floor.
Was it the ice,
the mile-high, grey and grinding ice?
Or the lava in its frenzy?
Hard to see it whole
and round and spouting the molten stuff
that formed this landscape . . .
My heart slowed.
The sweat
cooled on my skin under the white wind.
For miles around the crouch-backed mountains cowered.
What was it?
Not peace.
A kind of lurking,
a calamitous stillness.
I stood by the tall cairn wondering
who'd placed the first stone
and when,
then placed my own . . .
Bounding down
to catch the last boat out
I swerved in at the hostel
by the brae-foot.
'I've only chocolate', said the man -
'Are ye a member?'
'No, but I'm just down off the Ben.'
'Aye, well,' says he,
'That'll be tuppence extra.
I have my overheads, ye ken.'
'Aye!' said I.
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.