Sunday, 16 December 2012

Ode to How Stean Gorge

 
Above your iced, gushing torrents,
that would welcome first snow,
I hear you whisper, through the wind
to my quiet,
Sunday-soul;
'to me these falling leaves,
are more lonely
than cold,' and the sky turns all over,
in a breath.
I pull on my tactical, iron
vest, arms wrapped about me
protect my treasure chest,
and I climb all your different faces
of rock,
carrying with me, no heavy stones
of my own.

Your hard touch mocks against my skin,
and I tuck all loose
exposures in, so pockets of memory
and love can begin, to smile
from inside your caverns.
I find somehow, you are as old
and ravenous, for them,
as ever you were, and
I follow your signs and win my spurs above
familiar swirling,
and a wanton danger.
 
I leap across your voids, raising you wagers,
I will win, both game
and set; and you tease me back
to childhood without debt, without
arrears of moonlight, or cost.
The sun sets
across the lion's brow,
and I ascend his back;
a benevolent ghost...
 
I only came to remind you, you're beautiful,
and not all who wander
are lost.






   

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