Up I go, up the cliff face
leaping and bleating
horns locked with yours
my caprine heart blind
tongue needling tuft to justify.
Up I leap, up my face turns
feasting and gluttonous
mind, tramel your reasoning
with a litany of reversals
despite the pleading
to be heard.

And you cry.

Now you’ve got me
raging until the spirit rests
begrudging what is needful
no less than this for my baleful
eye to open and see
you. As you are.
Not a moon in orbit of my mountain
not a shrub, nor grain, nor hay to occasion
when the steep gives no more fleeting.
Up I get, up from my hircine perch
my spirit for yours leaping.