Climb down then clip on like
that night on the cliff-face in Sardinia
your platoon a shadow play for villages below.
This evening, you secure your mummy bag
then crawl in. Nibble trail food.
Maybe a samosa.
An eagle glides by and pigeons
slap in beside you. No one else
knows this place as a haven,
knows you’re here.
You’re held by struts and abutment,
cradled between concrete and steel,
offered up to the sky and the river
so far down people come here
In the morning you vault the rail and land
on the boardwalk. Shock a jogger stopped.
Source: Mac, Kathy. Previously unpublished. 2018.