Image: GariochT: Suilven the Mystic: The eastern peak of Suilven-Meall Meadhonach, Lochinver, Scotland | (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Blest

Whose footprint, pray,
adorns this peak
adored from day
lost still to pique
mankind — to find
who down to crown
stepped, whom all seek:
name none may say
— nay, if stones speak! —
Of hordes their way
there wend — yet mend
them not — their lot
to fall short, prey
to thought’s doubts bleak;
mundane pride weighs
their minds low, wreaks
havoc — makes mock
of wraith-like faith
which, baffled, leaks
e’en dregs away;
lost, save fate freak
turns: oft though they
may make the trek,
ill come — at home,
stronghold, best stay
than grow sapped, weak
higher they stray
— risk best left meek
pilgrim — victim
of whims — to him
who other cheek
turned, towards ray
of sun: light’s peek
past clouds of gray —
hope’s scope full ope
— blest art such hearts —