Camino Poems, SuperTrip2_2025

Over the Mountain

Now, that we have reached the plains,

there is room to breathe:

not the need to breathe

of climbs and scrambles;

not the catch of breath

as Mountain views pour into sight

from rocky paths:

room to breathe,

layered long, as the light of the rising sun;

deep, as the waterways

on which great cities grow.

Breath that is the harvest songs

of small, woodland birds.

Breath that is the scent of thyme

and feral clematis,

marking gardens long since lost

to bramble, beech and fern.

Breath that is dry with the dust of ending summer,

the cracking of surrendered leaves.

Breath that is the making, and unmaking,

of all things.

Climb

This place is fey,
like all Northern mountains in the fall.
Its paths are unpredictable,
rocky and winding,
tricky under foot.

Its heaths scratch with heather;
bite with briar;
gift both honey and fruit.
Its trees welt and whip
and perfume the way with resin;
carpet it with red and gold.
The Spirits of this place exist
beyond the tree line.
They roar upon its moors
and in its knifing streams.
They drive the horned and cat-eyed sheep.
The bells of horse and cattle are their mass.
They are, and were, and are to be
beyond the paradigm
of “good” or “ill”.
We honour them for their dominion,
no less, no more.

We honour them,
because it is how we both are made.