I climbed Caucasus one breath at a time, my aim:
to sit where Prometheus sat and put down roots
through sun-drenched turf to tie me to the life that flutters
through warm loam. It took three thousand heaving breaths
to carry me from the foothills, steaming heat crawling through my skin,
to where an army guards the mountain's spine, straight-backed and proud,
deeply-rooted ghosts of trees, mocked now by turf, eroding
from the mountain to leave huge swathes of alopecia.

I saw only ancient trees, walked only in cool shadows,
peered only at my boots, absorbed in waves of breath,
the ache of unaccustomed muscles, the tearing of my blistered feet.
The summit just beyond my reach, I stopped and took my rest
upon the mountain's flanks and in the distance saw Prometheus -
in quiet isolation he has claimed this rock once more.
I wondered did the ring Zeus offered with the promise of release
slip through his fingers or has he come to love this mountain?

The sky was full of bluebells and promises of birth,
and crowned by a dark speck that circled oh so patiently,
patiently, waiting for a second chance at warm, soft flesh.
That bird must surely be, of all the beasts, most full of virtue
to wait and wait and circle oh so patiently.

The Titan paid no heed, head bent, sitting in a spreading ring of sand
where his salt tears have turned loam barren,
tears that fail to quench the fires that burn in bloodshot eyes.
He is no longer bound, the rock instead is bound to him
but still he sits and weeps and softly on the breeze I heard him sing.
His song laments a brother - trapped by wide-lashed eyes
and keens in grief for the weight of a thousand ills
which traps a people who long ago stood tall in pride and justice.
A song that rings with curses for a box that can never be shut.

Would that I had strength enough to ask the question in my thoughts.
But I have seen what we have done with fire and did not dare
to ask him if, with foresight, he would give the gift again, so freely.
I climbed down from Caucasus, one breath at a time, stumbling
and falling through tear-smeared scrub and knowing I would never sit
where Prometheus sat. But if I listen, in the silence of the hills,
I may catch a little of his grief, repeated in the windsong.