By Eleanor Perry
Pico do Arieiro
on a ridge overlooking two gullies.
It is good to vacate our
lives and become exposed.
I stand panting at an air so clear
my lungs struggle to grasp its substance;
to realise it.
On my mind is perspective, and how much I have this
Ahead, the well worn path stoops upwards
hand charred by midday sun.
I look at the rough crevices above me
and imagine ascending them.
My chalky hands on the rocks,
The chalk of my hands becoming rough with the rocks,
The rocks and the chalk of my mind.
Sitting, now, with this blue pen
I am reminded of some blistering shore bound painted boat
far off in the distance.
Or the clarity of an air above clouds.