Poised in midflight, between the ledge
And falling from the previous handhold
Upon the rock face, descending from the edge
In a controlled orbit, walls of stone
On two sides, spray torn air, cold
And wet, to left and right, alone

Concerned with progress up the face
Of the cliff. Sky above, with clouds grey
In Rorschach patterns which trace
Out pictures of the future. Below,
The sea waves beat at the rocks, flay
The shelf with nine-tailed seaweed cats, throw

Up driftwood and shells. And all the time
The stone contends with hands and feet
Attempting to disrupt me as I climb
Upwards: A gross imitation of a fly,
Fingertips searching for cracks, toes that meet
In relief the summit at the edge of the sky.

					1975