The Arkaquah trail

The labourers gone home, the scaffolds bare and fluttering—evening piles down, and the scaffolds stay while the world falls away. Rags and rubble-throats, ribways of rhododendron, veins and spines of the ridge. The walker walks the bouncing planks, pauses, pulls from pipe to pipe— no sense of report, no sense of return—above an April residue of blossom and church, among the squalling sun, the evening snows— hurrying like a word toward its tongue.

David Troupes