So, its a climb, on the west coast of
Ireland, but more
than that, much more, an
epiphany.
Rising sharply out of the waves, a seaboard of
of
limestone, steady, steep. always kept clean by
the Atlantic
washing machine.
And there majestic, is the
line of siren. Dreamt about by
every
climber in
Ireland since its picture made the
cover of some guidebook. It takes no less a place in my
imagination.
A year of doubt, that last fall too bad, and do I really
still want to
climb again? It had been a year since I had
nearly cracked my head open, as if it had been opened
it was polluted with
doubt and
fear and then I found
myself on
siren.
The wall drops away beneath me, no gear for the crux
and suspended between
heaven and
hell, time still
the waves calling me and my fingertips keeping me,
my weight talking to them through
gravity.
I make one move, another, the
top. I can
climb again.
Siren is fear overcome, is
climbing regained, timlessness
and
redemption and a chunk of
limestone on the
west coast of some small island.