The London underground train rattles through the night. This is the soundtrack of the mountains. An empty vacuum. Rocks and ice follow deeply carved tracks and echo. Red brick walls topped with gothic turrets scrawled with natures graffiti, hem us.
The deep blue glacier cracks beneath. Stretches like polythene. Sleep. Awake. Sleep. Awake. And as we stir, stars slice through dark sky leaving trails. Life… life lived, lost life; love lost, lost love – vast empty space is consumed in a single breath and exhaled in a cloud of condensation. And in that evaporating cloud is choice. And at times, in that choice despair cries.
The underground passes through back yards, between fences, beneath windows, below roads, behind lives. The continued jointy rattle. At times I wonder what it would be like to fall. Red lights never change for some
Cold rock beneath a thin mat is comfort. The wheels scream as the hour comes close. The stove boils and chugs. Mystic vapours swirl. A blurred face stares into nowhere from a moving window of an empty carriage. Minutes are worth hours. Hours are worth days and a lifetime can be worth nothing.
The headtorch cuts the cold. Quartz ignites. Noisy trickles of water furrow through the glacier and slow until blackness and silence. It’s nearly time to catch the final train but I’m not sure yet from which station to board or depart.
Because this is the soundtrack of the mountains.