They climbed.
He went on
his face – the noonday sun –
searing lids to pierce
inner sight.
his clothes lifting
into cirrus-drift
and ear-skin’s
drumming:
My son – beloved
Peter stammering
words to
hammer shelters
to hold the vision fast.
and then darkness:
crushing weight.
his strong hand’s
gentle grasp on skin –
and his words:
do not be afraid
just a man again,
feet clambering
down through dust
and seared into their marrow:
noonday sun
cloud
and voice
burn on.
- Tom Ravetz, 1 March 2026A note of gratitude
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