Mortal Binds

 

Unfurling our fitful waking in the abyss plummet of night,
the descent from the death zone exacts a brutal fare,
where its skeletal air unveiled infinity and mortal binds,
our lorn cockerel call is the slam of the wind.

Our mountainous faith lies with the Icefall Docs –
they carry connate songs of burden downwards.
Faith lies briefly. It rises with uncaged heart beats
and the edge of a breath drawn days before.

Crampons clank on ladders, leather bound hands grasping
fixed ropes, fixed hopes on these slopes through
the ‘Ballroom of Death’. Moving one foot, one hand,
in a fatal dance with fickle focus. Her absence costs.

Dark gusts bring a dusting of ice. Our headlamps lend blues
to ruling seracs, the ‘fingers of fate’ that point to deep tombs,
folded bodies resting where they fell. Focus on the breath,
on the foot that takes the next step, the hand that grips life.

Three ladders lashed over a drop, were it a drop of sun-kissed wine…
We must outrace the sun, its kiss sends tremors, melting glaciers
then ice towers snap ropes — bodiless funerals imminent
thousands of miles away.  No. Stop.

Breathe, focus, hand, foot, grip, check, move, breathe.
One step, one reach, hand over hand, back to base.

Later we will speak of loss. How we lost the summit,
how the cellphone rang and we missed our mark.
We lost our Mark. He lost his focus, slipped off
the razor edge margin of error.

Mark had unclipped when it rang. He swung
on his second rope  — under avalanche thunder.
The anchors ripped out while the mountain took him,
an everlasting hold, an icy embrace in the crevasse.

Days later, we find out who had dialed in.
His loved ones had wanted a connection.
















Khumbu Icefall, where next?