The Cheviot

On my fiftieth birthday I climbed the Cheviot.
No Everest — no Matterhorn, yet still
A mountain in his own right.
That sweltering August day,
Sweating, we walked nine miles
Across a heathery moor to reach the foot.
The heather smelt of its own colour, and its name,
Humming with bees, that gathered honey
To match its colour and its smell.

Reaching the foot, we hid our rucksacks
In a farmhouse shed, and stared up
What seemed a vertical face,
Clinging to heather, almost on hands and knees

Reaching the top, it was another world.
The wind blew bitter cold, nothing to see but rock.
Shivering we crouched behind a boulder
To eat a bar of chocolate, then scrambled down
And sweated nine miles back.

It was a marathon to me, but I was proud
That day I'd climbed The Cheviot.