Questions on a Hill
I climbed Cat Bells
on the first day of winter:
mist above and below me,
sleet in the air.
The view of lakes and islands,
green and brown and silver-grey,
was wonderful.
No-one could tell it true.
I want you to wonder
why it is that men climb high
to feel like gods.
Are we star-children
reaching pitifully home,
or merely runners from our cares below?
Far away,
in sullen towns I could not see,
men were living who had done these things:
felt the thrusting mountains at their feet,
the cold wind on their eyes.
How many kept their memories fresh?
How many heard the wind?