Of course, none of us had prepared for the climb.
T-shirts, shorts, and Scott wore flip-flops.
But at that age, we felt invincible,
like no gradient or forecast could stop us.

Of course, nobody thought it would be hard
to lug bags of cider up with us. The bottles bulged
against my spine and my shorts ripped twice
managing the incline.

Of course, we all were desperate to avoid
igniting the fire contained between Rob and Lucy,
who were tense as tightrope, both withholding an argument
that had brewed since we left the motorway.

Of course, half way up, we contemplated the rest,
collapsed onto the grass, swatted the flies,
dispersed the dandelions, ripping open the food
we had prepared for the summit.

Of course, with a quarter mountain left,
Joe doubles over and dashes his vomit across the rocks,
and we left a bag of food behind to stink
and rot in the plastic for some other poor sod to find.

Of course, we reached the peak, fell to exhaustion,
quickly devoured the cheddar, relished the brisk winds
to dry the sweat, necked the scrumpy to keep us awake.

Of course, the argument finally erupted, off they went,
Joe was sick again, and my shorts were ruined,
and I tossed them into the wind like some ragged flag.

We savoured the scene, remaining silent as the evening came,
watched the sun fall from the clouds, slow and steady,
watched it fade behind the distant spires and supermarkets.

Of course we made it to the top.
We were invincible.

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