The Mountaineer's Wife (Poetry)

Whatever made him choose her from the rest —
did he simply use a pin to pick her out
from scores of strapping, jolly hockey girls,
or did she draw attention to herself,
flex and posture, crack a joke and pout,
suggesting she’d like hanging with the boys?

Did he think her plucky, always game
for anything — a thoroughly good sport
who ticked the boxes on his Krypton chart,
stout-hearted underneath her thermal vest?

Hard to think exactly what he’d done
or how he’d wooed her —sort of led her on,
lured her boldly up the mountain path,
roped her tightly on the steep ascent,
made their uphill marriage almost fun,
showed her every foot and finger hold...

If once she’s shared his passion to the full,
at what point did enthusiasm peak,
the thrill diminish, sense of wonder pall ? —
until she’d lagged, exhausted, on the slope,
while he climbed energetically above
as questions loomed, their avalanche unshed.

And so she’d stayed indoors, her world gone small.
The mountain called, but not a word to her —
the message was quite clearly meant for him.
The snows seduced him blind and whipping wind
made fresh demands and he obeyed, was lost
in his addiction, frantic for the taste.

The mountain was his mistress, harsh with spite —
he knew she killed her lovers randomly,
but still he worshipped, found her in the clouds,
abandoned his too horizontal life
for an affair, one way, with gaping sky
cold witness to his infidelity.

He stayed out every night — for weeks and months —
a year has passed. His wife sits, half-resigned
to silence, grim with ghosts who skulk around,
all incommunicado — frosted tongues in thrall.

She’s thinner, older, wiser now, unfit,
heart chilled to a thin ticking of regret,
and can’t help but imagine him with her —
Winter’s bitch — who cannot think or feel
but keeps him, uncorrupted, in her grip,
a deep-freeze slave, a sacrifice, love’s fool.