Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2009

Raining Rocks and Sheep

by Charlene Blackwell

From Llanberis near the steamer's track
peak in sight, no going back.
Twelve of us guardians
nineteen young hooligans
nearly lost one to Never-Neverland
lucky sod only bruised his hand.
 
Once more, packin' dishwasher parts
dead sheep; dabbling in photographic arts
frozen hands, wits and brains
all bloody weather, all sodden terrains.
 
It's raining rocks today, nowhere to hide.
My sad man in shorts walks up the side.
"No shelter, is there?" he says with a grin
as it cuts and claws at face and skin.
One leg bleeding, he puts us to shame
like his rambling uncle, oldest to reach Everest base-camp fame.
 
Shoulda reckoned the cafe'd be shut
no hot chocolate, we're shit outta luck.
Man in fog says they lost one
keep your eyes out for young South African.
 
Our group splits, Watkins and Pig Track
red car in view as we're heading back.
"What took you?" - subtle dig and a kiss
off to the loo to take a piss.
Smokin' a fag, no news of lost traveller
says Inigo of Lincolnshire, earlier passer.
If asked to go tomorrow, I'd stop
And say, "On your bike, Pal! Race you up top!"

Added: 28.04.2009

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