Climb on! Climb on! The wind insists, urgent at my back,

Pushing me ever upwards, along the mountain track

I tread the path on shaky feet, stumble from tree to tree

The sun, once warm upon my face, seems now to hide from me

I slither, slide, snatch at a branch to stop myself from falling

Even in that breathless space, I hear the cold wind calling

Climb on! Climb on! It harries me; it is only then that I

Can see the clouds are languid in a clear, calm blue sky

They do not race as if windblown, they neither scud nor scurry

They do not hurtle, chase or whirl as if in deathly hurry

The trees around me do not bend as at the wind’s insistence

I am the only thing around made slave to its persistence

The rising flesh upon my back is nought to do with cold

I am too afraid to turn around, and so do as I am told

At last, I reach the summit, the weary mountain top

Only now does the wind waver; only now does it stop

With watery eyes I gaze, across the valley spread below

The town, the lake, Lover’s Lane where youth and yearning go

The forest of fir towers, in shades of darkest green

Surveying all protectively, silent and serene

Something shimmers, something shifts, in that needled mass

Something like an entity makes a shrouded pass

The spiny boughs tremble as a ghostly house takes shape

Look on! Look on! The wind implores, cool fingers at my nape

Now a roof, low and wide; now a garden wall

Now a door, open wide, where a man stands tall

Trembling, I shade my eyes so I can better see

That the phantom in the doorway is waving back at me

Too awed to move, too terrified to turn and look away

I stare, watching as the trees begin to gently sway

The ghost house falters, glitches, holds a moment, then

The forest of tall firs is just a forest, once again

I cannot remember, now, how I got down

If I walked or if I ran through the indifferent town

But I never will forget, never mind how long the years

The face of the waving spirit and the house among the firs

S P Oldham