I was certain the rungs were wooden sure of the rope that had me swinging. Why else was I thinking so much of the grip of past climbers and the dirt pushed into the twists
I was certain the rungs were wooden sure of the rope that had me swinging. Why else was I thinking so much of the grip of past climbers and the dirt pushed into the twists smoothed and darkened by person after person on their way up? And yet here I am three-quarters of the way up realising that the ladder is inflatable swaying on unanchored plastic. I cling on; tell myself height is irrelevant that I was ascending before. Say, if hand over hand worked a few feet in the air, had me climbing steadily there is no reason to doubt it now. Willing the sway to stop I keep listening almost believing. I go faster desperate to outclimb that gentle puff of escaping air.
Sue Finch
Sue Finch lives with her wife in North Wales. Her work has appeared in a number of online magazines including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dear Reader, One Hand Clapping and IceFloe Press. Her debut collection, ‘Magnifying Glass’, was published in October 2020 with Black Eyes Publishing UK.
Twitter: @soopoftheday