Hillwalking with my father, he would say: Take the slow way
Over the shoulder of the hill. Follow the lie of the land.
There's no rush, it will take us to the summit all the same.
In life, he seldom took his own advice but chose
The munro-baggers path straight up the side,
The shortest route towards the prize.
Worked long hours, argued into the night, ordered champagne
In inappropriate places. The candle of his life burned brightly
At both ends; went out too soon.