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Rocher de Naye, June 2018

 

We travel up the mountain’s crag

in a blue and white cogwheel train, you

on my sister’s lap in a cardboard box.

 

At the summit, we follow her, a trail

of ducklings led to the chosen spot,

anemones parting at our calves,

 

until we stumble on a woman

meadow-squatting, trousers pooling

at her feet, and quickly change tack,

 

you – a raven rasping in my ear, why

do my children always disappoint me?

The lake far below, a vast blue winking

 

eye, once the constant in your life.

At the windy cliff edge we dip

our hands inside your urn.

 

Day trippers pause to inhale the view.

I watch choughs ride the taut thermals,

and you, rising like a storm cloud.