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Down
a dirt track three
Miles above the power dam
The river whispers, in its iron
Vein, over the narrow, nearly
Silent valley while elephants make
Their vegetarian way through the forest.
The power station's postmaster says
An elephant, like an ideal guest,
"Is worshiped, but he is wished away."
The herd stays across the valley
In the trees. A fat, endearingly
Flawed moon rises as the day
Accomplishes its descriptive task.
Shaded from the moonlight even,
A young cardamom creeper sticks
To its post, and an elephant
Reaches for an ebony leaf,
Snorts, scratches his moist temple
On the spine of an areca palm,
Then makes his bower for the night.
A panther pug marks a new seed bed
Until the morning, when the wind comes
Down through a bamboo thicket
On the ridge, running a gamut
There of chest notes for elephants
And clear soprano octaves that carry
Over the dam, past the settlement,
Out of these blue hills.
"MALLORY OF EVEREST" TO HIS WIFE —
1924
The
aether cleared under
Our high camp. At the peak,
The mountain's veil blew out
Over
Changtse, looping
Southeast, it seemed, past Lhotse
All the way to Darjeeling.
Between,
I looked at col and cwm,
The sun so white and burning
I flinched when it struck
Glancing
back from the monocle
Of an Indian Survey field glass
A mile below: straight down.
Then
stared it out of countenance.
Col and cwm! From here,
I'd name all Wales, starting
With
a school ground to profess in,
Or a parsonage to commandeer,
Like father's. "For the long run,"
As
Strachey pleaded, or in it,
As Keynes contradicted – I'd not be back
To Gower Street and being painted.
The
cloud beneath me closed.
I found my station: there are no others
At this altitude. I jangled my unsporting
Carabineers
against crampon
As homing signal for Irvine
And watched out afternoon
And
evening remembering
The lines of your face and the folds
Of your ear. A quarter moon rose
To
light the coldest hours, hanging on
At morning under a bowl
Of heaven rich and red
As
the robe of the Rongbuk lama.
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