Bill Griffiths
The Everest Poem
West House Anthology
of the scentlessness of the air

I have this obligation to clamber

nor the temples of the time
their incense brown

the smoke
our tabs
muck the new air
and do it better

blue twist tails
that turn text

we wash in snow
something of our dirt works free
the sweat-water
perfectly stays
will warn others
about us

every Jack has his gill
and in our privacy we heat
and taste
and want more
to embrace/imbue with
our public signature, colour, flavour

I left a few biscuits, some chocolate and a blue pen … 4 small flags …

more to mark out

the spirits of thin air
peal and jostle and tackle our lungs
alien defence

we play all possibilities

at the first we make them bury the dung
but now there are only important people
the team
our snow mother and
strong motivation

the steamed snow
is good to breathe
and make soup
absorbed and flavours our gases

nothing living or moving mammal to leave
except us

is there anything
we have not reached or coloured n handled
smeared with the gum of the parent code
made a mule?

the bringing in of the tulip
is nothing to the hunt for height

the secret of the summit

it is personal

and does it matter?

if east-musk or west phosphorus
textured the making of water?