The Hill

We set out early,
before the heat had settled.

The road rose gradually at first.
Dust lifted behind the car
and hung there.

We had bread and coffee.
That was enough.

At a roadside stop
I played a few notes on the pipes.
People turned, listened,
then went back to what they were doing.

We drove on.

The path was steeper than it looked.
Stone underfoot,
no shade at first.

We stopped more than we said we would.
Breathing hard,
hands on knees.

Halfway up
the view opened behind us.
Sea already bright.

At the top
the chapel held the cool.
Wax, metal,
the smell of it.

Small offerings hung on the walls.
Arms, legs,
faces worked in tin.

I stood there a while.
Lit a candle.
Did what I remembered to do.

Outside again
the light was stronger.

I took the bottle from my pocket.
Turned it in my hand.

No one watched.

I threw it as far as I could.
It struck once,
then was gone.

We stood there
without speaking.

Then we started down.

Later
we went to another place.
Quieter.
Less to see.

We held hands going in.

Nothing happened.
Nothing needed to.

By night
we were back.

She was already asleep.
I stood a moment
before the mirror.

Then lay down beside her.

Through the window
a few stars held.

I watched them
until I didn’t.