From a tired countryside
Emerged a weary band—
Saw ambling clouds spilling happy light
Upon a merry land.
Somber peaks of startling purple
That climb the horizon trellis
Greet distant birds that swoop and shriek
With mirthful songs to tell us.
Magnanimous red stone that rocks the soul,
Fields forever breathing;
Carnelian crags that hearken the old,
Their godly visages beaming.
No flowers marring the mountain paths
That are dauntless and careening
Belie stones athrob with a steely light
Like little hearts beating.
Creeks that conspire to look of gold
Beneath a stern sun gleaming
In the bluest yonder that ushers the cold:
Friends to the travelers fleeing.
Away from the dullness and the drear
Into quietude the travelers go—
Among high hills that are one and only
Is a hospitable abode.
About the Creator
Emily Prichard
appalachian expat currently living in the rockies.
i tell tales from the mountains.
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The Climb
It was seventeen hundred hours or thereabouts when three young men were met with a frozen pond tucked away in a bed of snow on a palace of a mountain. A vague sense that they had finally succeeded in putting a considerable amount of vertical distance between themselves and their home at the base of the mountain range dawned on them.
By Emily Prichard 3 years ago in Fiction
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