My birthday,
28 years, undistinguished.
Cold January, signs of rain to come.
Our day off, just one a week.
I drove, I always drove.

If I remember
we had the Dewerstone to ourselves.
Just me and Clarkie.
Or at least that’s how it now seems.
His treat, my present.

Climbers’ Club, ordinary,
hard, very severe.
We kitted up at the bottom,
smoked for a while,
then Clarkie set off.

He’s got an odd style.
Not strong, poised,
delicate for such a big man.
I hardly remember the first pitch.
Just sense of steepness,
good holds marked by years of passage.

The belay was a ledge, not big, big enough.
We fumbled about, rearranged the gear.
Clarkie offered me the lead
“Go on it’s easy this one”
“You’ve not done it before you arse,
so how do you know?”

He grinned, set off again.
Then the ropes pulled at me,
reluctantly I unclipped the belay.
Not a hard pitch, as it turns out.
(Could I have lead it? We’ll never know now.)

Soon I was sat next to him on the ledge.
Cozy in a niche. Clipped in,
and a sudden strong rain blew over the crag.
Down to the woods, and the river Plym.
Two hundred feet below our heels.

The rain fell, heavy.
It blew and blustered.
We sat safe, strung to the rock,
shelterd in our erie

We stopped there for a while,
entranced, we laughed at squalls.
Told tales, shared smokes.
But mainly just watched the rain fall.
A blessing.

It was, and remains
the most sublime moment of my life.
An eternity in five minutes
of absolute tranquility and joy.

I can see us now, still there,
eternally blessed by the moment.

The rest of the climb,
passed without event.

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