Snowdon Philosophy
(North Wales)

Count me one object among many
as I stop to strap on a hood
and jacket, cover a pack, and bend
again into misting rain. An object
passing objects probable as sheep
or stone, possible as gravel fill
or wooden rail, definite as nettle
or thistle, all bearing themselves
out of clouds on Mount Snowdon.
Hiss of steam engine somewhere
above me, low hoot and high
whistle, spoil the milky
silence, until one must wake
(mustn't one?) and believe
something up there exists
as certain as the end of earth
at Snowdon's summit and the
plunge into space, if one wanders
beyond what is sensibly revealed—
if not palpable as an object,
then a piercing sound from a high
invisible place, not quite object,
not void, not song, not human
word, but human made, for certain,
and recorded in the human mind.

Copyright © 2005 Neil Shepard All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission