by Isolde ÓBrolcháin Carmody06 Feb 2014
A thing is only big if you are small.
I count it a mountain
That rises beneath my stunted steps.
Adventure can ambush you at home
When the world is made strange, and your body stranger.
That is how Mount Everest
Knocked on my front door
On a little Leitrim hill
Calling for an epic climb
Through snow and frozen mud
To conquer a freezing pole of pain.
But to stand on such a peak!
A full moon above, a fretwork of stars,
The Milky Way a distant glimpse
Reflecting the tracks of our footprints
Disintegrating with distance.
And before us, a sparkling slope
Inviting a sliding slalum
A struggling stumbling bumble
With limbs out-flinging emptily
Hoping to grope a helping hand.
And the promise, the carrot?
A dark, cold house
Its only beacon the lit Christmas tree
And a pile of feather duvets.