Return to the Cliffs

In the strangest way
I have missed these heights
of silence and darkness
these long, bitter nights.

I have missed the rough edges
of the rocks in the sky
where fingertip margins
ascertain who will die.

Where the wind whistles freely
and the echoes are pure
where the ground waits, impatient,
for grave gravity's cure.

I can still see the ledges
where I last dared dance
on the face of the mountain
in the mad poet's trance.

I ascend by the moment
to return to my nest
on the hills of temptation
where the sun knows me best.

Where the moon has so often
played a hide and seek game
with the shrubs and the grasses
and the cliff runner's name.

For the nonce I will linger
in my home in the hills
to return to my dances
to test again my thin skills.

And to issue dispatches
in ink, light and sweat
that record every moment
of hope and regret.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.