Niesen Mountain
The top of the pyramid is a medley of cloud, height sustained
the lakes below swimming in and out of view, an abuse of sea-level,
slipping down the mountain on my Clarks shoes with no tread
is tiring on the legs, the search for balance constant,
the difference between standing and falling not so large.
Further down the path is blocked by cows, placid but
hard to move, the white faced ones com from the next valley.
The grasses damp from the brief hailstorm with the smallest stones
slide beneath my feet, the flowers distract
and then the cow shit, one can easily fall off the mountain.
The first sign of civilisation as the path skirmishes through rocks
is inverted sky, cloud reflection, the attraction of art framing the world
as manageable, even backwards, in the Claude glass performance,
cloud shifting on the metal rim brimming, a trough, and then
a young dark-haired boy with a plait scoots past and we reach the farm.
A still is bubbling away. The boy called Heinz Knutti, sells us cheese
in the sing song local dialect - he’s with a friend below the great bells
used to ring the changes as they move their herds from the valley in winter
to the first hut Maiesass (lit.May sit down) for three weeks then six weeks
up here in the Alps, on their summer farm, and then back down again.
Note: This way of farming is waning. The cheese was delicious.
Thanks to Armin & Barbara for buying the cheese!
My legs took two days to recover.