Who knows what we can do? When friends believe
In us, the chrysalis grows tight and splits
And, struggling out, we fly. Your basalt cliffs
Rose up that day like panic. I swallowed hard,
So scared, my two-day migraine slid away.
Yet when I grasped the chains, they were all muscle,
A warmth of linked hands. Then into an hour’s
Hauling, up and over-ing, inching downwards,
Toes socketing home, holdfasts to hand.
An afterwards, next year, that you’ll remember –
Kestrel leaning upon warm cliff-top air,
Nonchalant grasses, and the glittering Forth.