Dais
The wrong shoes
impede my ascent
and I struggle-slip through
grass and gorse.
The keen thorned shrubs
tug on too thin clothes
and claw at barely
waxed haversack
that holds a map
blurred and limp
from mist and mizzle,
replaced now by common
sense and the trails left
by countless pilgrims driven
higher on irrigious sod.
Earth gives way to moss
and rock and ice-glass
skittering as I head
to the tribune and commune
with the open gloam.
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Will Vigar 
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