We could have chosen to walk on, Past the rock pillar, where the grass turned brown, Our tracks fresh on old snow. The world Was somewhere down below, Suspended small and colourless between the walls Of scree and stone. We could have looked At the hump of the mountain, icy black, And seen it for what it is—a face scratched by wind, Unsmiling, its teeth bared in pain. There’s more to it than being there, you see The ghost of yourself on the ridge, braving Clouds, hands outstretched, moments before the fall. It vanished before I got the chance to blink. The rocks, Like mirrors, multiplied our fear.