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.
Head games abound.
The air is thick. The trees in the valley sway.