Brooding.

Like a lonely god,
Too high for the world, reaching
Into the cloudless beyond.
Frozen in your own eternity, beyond
Mere heroism.

Sublime.

Human Reason – mantled in thought’s long past –
Crouches against such height, old in its endeavour.

I can face you not in your whiteness which blinds the sunrise;
Nor in the harsh cold murmuring on your slopes;
Only through the dimming mediation of machines:
The mighty aircraft that bears me above your clouds;
The camera through which I capture you, holding you
Prisoner in my imagination, a trophy commemorating a false triumph,
A feeble regent of actuality, manipulable, reproducing you without shame
Disseminating you at my pleasure: god, man, hero.

In awe.

I stand, as you rise above night, black cloud
Sustained against your silver peak