A horde of gaunt gossamer clouds
Came drifting through the gloomy sky—
Thick mists poured down over the peaks,
Wafting about the frigid air
—Like vapors from a witch’s spell—
Bubbling, foaming, frothing, until
The sable brim was overflowed,
And curses on cursed pinions flew.
So did the vapors dance about
The mountain’s frigid air that night.
The climb was anything but quick;
The peaks were anything but bright.
The student charged into the mist;
The master slowly climbed each slope.
He travelled calmly, patiently:
Each step was light, but spirited
Because he knew but all too well
That men fall faster than they climb.
The student pondered as he heard
The sage’s slow but willing steps.
They climbed towards a mountain ridge,
Trekking up slopes day after day.
For nights on end, nothing appeared
Before them on their high ascent.
No sweet sights came before their tired
Gazes, none but the haunting dance
Of wraith-like mists, which stalked
Each wearied step the travelers took.
The pupil stopped, then turned around,
And waited for the sage to show.
“The fast go slow, the slow go fast,”
The master said, looking ahead.
Then, after many sleepless climbs,
They exited a sea of mist.
David B. Gosselin is a poet, translator, and researcher based in Montreal. He is the founding editor of The Chained Muse and New Lyre Magazine.
Well crafted poem.
A great lesson here.