i. the blue inkwell of the sky
As a boy, I remember thinking ‘how is it possible to climb into the sky?’

My father gave action to my dreams    he taught me to climb small mountains

I have a theory that people climb for the smell of it

I felt more like an astronaut    no clouds    a curving horizon

Just the flapping prayer flags    the beat and heave of my heart and my lungs

You cannot imagine how beautiful

    small tissue notelets    Ang Lakpa told me to throw them

into the air    they hung there, caught in the updraughts

about 20 feet above our heads




ii. its wings and drops and cliffs
I was travelling in a whiteout    I fell head over heels

my ice axe had no bite in the snow

I could not feel my feet because of frostbite

the torches were not working

night was falling    and the wind was picking up.

I just slumped into the snow and cried —

tears for lost friends.

Some of us lost all our toes and some fingertips.

The summit is a narrow place.

20 people were already there.

I descended about 20 feet and sat alone.
 
Note: this poem was adapted from Everest: Reflections from the Top,

eds. Christine Gee, Garry Weare and Margaret Gee