The mountains of poetry

On that final morning at Pyatigorsk my alarm rang at 7 am. I’d decidedon one last reckless bid for the “silver-capped Caucasus” of Pushkin.The hotel lift took me to the 17th floor, then I strode down the corridor toward the south-facing balcony door, imagining myself a blearyeyed Lermontov with cameras, tripod and lenses clanking under my arm.