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.