When the Load Seems Too Heavy
At times we dream of what could be
And stake our claim in ventures bold.
Then wake to face the skills we lack:
The list so long, mind’s fog so cold.
Tis then, when bite surpasses chew,
Our mind throws us a web it’s spun.
It’s syrup voice purrs in our ear:
“Not every race needs to be run!”
Alone and tired, we question Hope.
The whispering doubt, the mocking song.
Failure’s brambles heart’s sinews tear.
The path we chose now feels too long.
It’s then I recall Cumbria’s hills,
Made sacred by our Beatrix’ tales.
Gaping up to Scafell’s Pike I stand,
While skies once crisp now threaten gales.
Ten thousand trudges. Ten thousand more.
Hot lungs, wet rocks and treach’rous scree.
Until that scream, triumphant sob,
“Is that the final climb we see?”
I shall not crest that cairn again,
Nor “Yawp!” with joy at clouds below.
No mind. Sharp memory swells my breast,
And courage gives for where I must go.
And courage gives for where I must go.
