the mountain that all post-menopausal women
need to climb before they die,
rises a sturdy breast of tough Quarzite
to the sky.
And down she came,
in a yellow buttoned blouse and cream Craghoppers.
I’ll call her Edy,
because now all women with gritty determination,
willing to crawl on hands and knees for the final ascent,
bear her name.
This Edy had made it to the top
but was struggling down,
for no-one saw how Sheila Hancock, exhausted, descended.
Now I too am a Suilven crone,
thighs like granny pines,
breasts rising with pride,
I have drunk from the madre mountain
and can roar into old age