There's an ice-axe hanging on the wall,
But it's used for gardening if at all,
No more he heeds the mountain's call,
There's his ice-axe hanging on the wall.

There's a nylon rope above the lawn,
It's looking rather frayed and torn,
The nappies that his baby's worn,
Hang from that rope above the lawn.

His boots lie on the toolshed floor,
His pack's behind the garage door,
He never wears it any more,
His boots lie on the toolshed floor.

And his ice-axe hangs upon the wall,
It's used for gardening if at all,
He too, has answered to the call,
He got married in the fall.

---

Kieran,
Co-Treasurer