The Cliff

A wizened old man stands

Upon the precipice of a great cliff

Looking down into the crystal sea below,

And sees a small, lonely figure

On the strand looking up at him.

From a height, the world

Is a small and simple place.

Waves are tiny white imperfections

On a canvass of deepest blue,

People moving dots of colour

Blotting the land.

A small child stands in the cliff's long shadow

Gazing in awe

At it's enormity and rugged beauty

And slowly, begins to climb.

His light and cautious tread

Echoes softly as he climbs

Up the damp, jagged cliff,

The barren rock face looming above him,

He moves from foothold to foothold.

Rain showers batter the dark limestone,

A wall of rock hewn through millennia of wind and rain.

The strong coastal gales erode the young boy too,

Moulding a man.

Limbs and tendons ache

And his weary footsteps ring out across the bay,

As he forces himself to keep moving

Upwards,

Until finally his feet find solid ground.

A wizened old man stands

Upon the precipice of a great cliff

Looking down into the crystal sea below

And it calls longingly to him.

His journey finally over, he lets himself

Fall,

Spiraling peacefully

Into the welcoming sea below.