Abseiling in the Cevennes by Beth Brooke

Dry soil gives way to scree,

stone splinters scatter

under clinging feet.

This is the edge of the world,

I am harnessed to it,

gripped around thighs, waist.

A rope, blue, in my hands,

ready to play me

into the space that

opens beneath.

I catch the scent of thyme

on a barely perceptible breeze,

the mew of a circling buzzard.

I look up to see and

suddenly everything is blue -

blue rope, blue sky,

plosive sound of my

launching breath as I become

utterly, completely,

adrenaline, heart,

muscle, blood and bone.

---

Beth Brooke is a retired teacher and she lives in Dorset. Her debut collection is out next year, courtesy of Hedgehog Poetry Press. She can be found on Twitter as @BethBrooke8.