When the poem is done I let it take effect on me like a pill slid down my throat, waiting. And when at last you get to the top, when you’ve reached that place to stop and turn back, how does it look, the view? Does the sun touch the tall trees or fill the valley with pink, in the day’s last light? Or have you come at morning, for a last look before breaking camp? When it’s time to turn back, I hope it was all you imagined it to be and fills you with some reward for how hard you worked all your life to get there, for that long journey back down to the start.