[Mountain . . .]

That Mountain,
that ship of the sky
riding the slashing blades
of hard weather,
of steely clouds,
of solar glint,
until it moors

in cradles
near waiting mothers,
in the quiet and the blue
hearts of those fathers
who wait on granite decks

to nourish
with bitter prayers
the light of heaven,
the light that feeds
on your grain, on minerals,
on the colours of dawn,
on the plans of chaos.