Tundra

The base crumbles and the dust lifts limestone grey.

An oatmeal crack separates and unravels

A man of bad taste and goitrous solitude.

His mind wrenches white in the wind as he seeks his way,

Looking up to where colour meets the sky.

Fingers grip; one digit at a time,

Leaving the blanched rock behind.

The pale core is what gives brightness asunder,

Where the crest flares juniper and thoughts lay sage.

Ascension is slow but the time is well spent,

Breath by breath as the story gains number.

The air gives volume. The air gives space.

The surface is green but the wind still blows.

This must be the place.