“Keep climbing,” they said, not saying why.
“Don’t turn back, you have to try.”
So onward I trudged, though the path was steep,
without looking back at my valley deep.
I was born in the valley,
where it smelt of spring, and new-mown hay, and growing things.
In the valley, where the robin sings,
and every Sunday the church bell rings
sharp at seven:
where they talked of Heaven
not hell.
I remember the school, and the dusty road
where I’d run to help father carry his load
of greens from the garden, or fish from the sea.
He seemed to stand taller when smiling at me:
and the smile never faded.
The days were long,
but short as the stay
of a summer circus,
or a rainy day
in grandmother’s attic.
Then I watched the travellers, and saw them walk,
and not all passed, for some would talk.
And they spoke at length of the mountain high,
and of golden temples that reached the sky.
And I heard
and spoke not a word.
But thought.
Then joined them in their weary climb
and pilgrimage to heights sublime.
But our breath grew short as we reached a plateau
in a land of mist, where bitter winds blow.
I could see no more of the valley below.
“Upward,” they cried, and surged ahead.
They pushed those weaker. They walked on the dead,
not seeing.
And I ran in terror from the crowd,
and heard mad voices calling loud.
But the sun had come from behind its cloud,
and I saw the valley, with fields fresh ploughed,
and ran faster.
I mended my nets and sharpened my hoe,
and forgot the mountain covered with snow:
and I watch the travellers passing by.
And once in a while, at night, I cry
and wonder.
