Did you think you were going to get away with reading no love sonnets this Valentine’s season? It’s time for our yearly poem to our belayers. Forgive the longing in my adaptation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet LVII:
Being your belayer, what should I do but tend
Upon the lowers and catches of your desire?
I have no precious rope at all with which to send,
Nor belays to give, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the bouldering hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the check-in for you,
Nor feel the loneliness of absence devour
When you have bid your climbing once adieu;
Nor dare I ponder with my jealous whims
Where you may send, or what you may climb,
But, like a sad trad dad, stay and think of no gyms
Save, where you are how strong you make send-time.
So true a trick is love that in your attempt,
Though you may hang-dog, he holds no contempt.
How much does your belaytionship affect your climbing?