The Long Way Back

Six hours up the icefall on the south face
We encounter a line of fresh tracks
That draws us across the mountain's shoulder
Into a high-level hut of unlined metal
To surprise a party of Swiss, laughing and talking
Over their experiences on the tourist route
From Chamonix ...

They look disbelievingly at our improvised gear—
Wehrmacht rucksacks, Alpini boots, Kaiapoi woollen
Jerseys, caps comforter, and old army socks for gloves.

...

Then we buckle on crampons, adjust the rope
And start up the summit ridge;
The Italian leads and I'm up close,
Axe ready, rope tightly in hand.
Every 50 metres or so we lean over our axes
And drag at the air like old men on difficult stairs.
The wind is now so sharp there's no stopping
For more than freezing seconds;
Soon it's my turn to chip each step
Precisely lest a slip sends us sliding

...

In corroboration of last winter's pact
Made when we were fugitives
In the landscape of our choosing:
'When it's over we'll celebrate—
We'll climb the highest point in the Alps'

...

Each step towards the summit
I keep thinking about my friend
And all the mountains we might have climbed
Together ...

But for a moment longer I wait,
Arm in arm against the wind,
Hesitating on the extreme arc of memory,
Staring down into Italy
While tears freeze in my eyes
For ever.