A Gothic or Romantic nature?
Tectonic plates clash: a marriage that ascends to still greater heights.
Out of the water we climb Mont Blanc.
On the bus we discussed the cost of a Big Mac in London, Berlin, and Paris. Austerity bites and a clown, chasing away the burglar, opens hospices with the click of a finger and a magic noun.
Half way up the mountain a lunch stop clatter atop rocks that used to be submerged under the sea. We gasp and trace the fossils with our fingers. Where we used to be. Life raft. I see Victor chasing his monster over the peaks hotly pursued by a writer and her poet lover. Still wet from drowning.
Spinning out of control we begin to fall through fresh snow. Off piste, skiers curse and swear at us; our calves burnt fifty shades of hot pink. Then, in a blink, down we hurtle, like angels, towards Chamonix. The scenery turning to spring.
Ice kitchens and glaciers, chiseled Shakespearean actors, all perfectly pushing pines. Harmony.
These are the days we are burnt to a crisp or cooled in the dark alpine glades. On a pyre, many miles north, the monster’s memory blisters and fades.