Annecdotes: Prompt for Week Seven

How to Live. What to Do.

Last evening the moon rose above this rock

Impure among a world unpurged.

The man and his companion stopped

To rest before the heroic height.

Coldly the wind fell upon them

With many majesties of sound

They that had left the flame-freaked sun

To seek a sun of fuller fire.

Instead there was this tufted rock

Massively rising high and bare

Beyond all trees, the ridges thrown

Like giant arms among the clouds.

There was neither voice nor crested image

No chorister, or priest. There was only

The great height of this rock

And the two of them standing still to rest.

There was the cold wind and the sound

That it made, away from the muck of the land

That they had left, heroic sound

Joyous and jubilant and sure.