So, its a climb, on the west coast of Ireland, but more
than that, much more, an epiphany.
Rising sharply out of the waves, a seaboard of
of limestone, steady, steep. always kept clean by
the Atlantic washing machine.
And there majestic, is the line of siren. Dreamt about by
every climber in Ireland since its picture made the
cover of some guidebook. It takes no less a place in my imagination.
A year of doubt, that last fall too bad, and do I really
still want to climb again? It had been a year since I had
nearly cracked my head open, as if it had been opened
it was polluted with doubt and fear and then I found
myself on siren.
The wall drops away beneath me, no gear for the crux
and suspended between heaven and hell, time still
the waves calling me and my fingertips keeping me,
my weight talking to them through gravity.
I make one move, another, the top. I can climb again.
Siren is fear overcome, is climbing regained, timlessness
and redemption and a chunk of limestone on the
west coast of some small island.