Photo by Yves Alarie on Unsplash

    Blue Mountain

We had passed halfway point.
Every muscle in my body was singing,
brimming with lactic acid. We’d been arguing,
arguing as we climbed, about the best way
to climb a mountain, though I’d never climbed
a mountain before and you’d topped the summit
countless times. I wanted to enjoy the walk:
the winding path fringed with unfurling ferns
and bamboo stalks, gold and tall. You said:
To get to the top, you’ve got to look up.
Kept leading us off the path to the short cuts
through the underbrush over rocks and red soil.
Impossible to gain stable footing, we kept on
moving, the forward motion propelling us
a step ahead of stumbling. It started to rain.
You took my hand. The air thickened
with the scent of parched earth being pummelled
by water, particles of dust darting up, resisting
their muddy fate and already I was drenched,
had never been so wet; I’d never been so close
to the clouds with the rain coming down
and kept on going. At the summit we stood,
hearts swollen with victory and relief, though
thick grey mist had stolen the famous view
of the north and south coasts of the island.
Later, in the guesthouse in the valley,
you tell me of the Taíno and Maroons who
escaped slavery by fleeing to the Blue and
John Crow mountains; it was here, in unmapped
land colonists dared not enter, that they gathered,
grew strength, and planned their resistance.