Stale Mate Poem by Annie Jackson

As my car tiptoes towards the usual craggy cliff-face and
My eyes screw tight with ostrich logic, it occurs to me:
In any isolated year, loads of seasoned travellers
Pace the same loose-stone terrain.
Most wear padded layers (Which we fold to anticipate our
Big Day Out) whereas some bear no luggage whatsoever!
I have watched them
Bare-chested grunters of guttural chants
A few, frenzied, fall into cracks
Their empty hands grope for a jutting ledge
Or tree – though a twig would do –
The wind, awoken, rushes deep inside their cores.
One day – when a hole presents itself to my diary –
I will: climb atop a fresh mountain,
Fling off my cotton-wool hat,
And jump. The journey will
End with breeze-tussled hair
And a smile.