Green Mountain

The laces of my walking boots are as long
as the blisters between my toes.
You can see them in the years-long path
leading to a green mountain shaped
like your sleeping head.
In professional wrestling, they say
getting to the top is the easy bit,
staying there is the toughest.
So, when the hike feels its steepest
and the clouds spit out low self-esteem,
I put on another plaster, wear extra
layers under the thick coat
self-sabotage is desperate to throw away
and I look at the green mountain.
I watch it breathe in through its nose
and out through is mouth. I count
its fingers and toes and its books
on the shelf and favourite yogurt
in the fridge. I watch it breathe
and let its snore remind me
it is comfortable enough to sleep
because it is staying.