The promise

The promise of a perfect summer.

Hazy skies. Dry weather. Crisp bark.

The forest, silent and still with anticipation, wakes from winter slumber .

Grass green moss hides footpaths not trodden for a season,

Meander the scree, a snake sliding its way downhill, And all for towering crags.

Smooth and perfect.

Steep and violent;

Squeaked boots, hands dusted, routine rituals seem rusty. Slow;

Cold rock hides secrets and sequence;

The need for upward dance.

Hands not used to holding. Eyes not used to recognising.

Routes forgotten;

Head games abound.

Frustration.

The air is thick. The trees in the valley sway.

Anticipation.