A Cold Grave For A Warm Man.

• Thomas Midson, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2011

As I walk across the furious gorge,

And the mountain slope rises to meet my daring gaze,

The ease of assent seems apparent,

As easily as I might fall,


The smell of mountain moss and scotch fills the thin air,

As we open our bottle of holy water to christen the mountain,

Wetting its head with spirits of amber and joy,

The wind whistles over the bottles open neck,


The clouds rise from the distant valley below,

The knowing silence of my brethren,

Emanates from their eyes,

Only to be snatched by the lamenting wind,


Thinking of our brothers moment of suspension,

Before his stony doom on the mountains cold side,

Folded in the snows soft sheets,

Where his soul shall forever rest.