THE MOUNTAIN

These mountains enfold peace. All that can be heard are the far away
sounds of birds and water, the sound of the wind, and the rattling of
loose stones as they are dislodged by even the most careful feet. Then,
quite suddenly, a jet aircraft screams through the sky, weaves around,
swooping so close until you’re convinced they’ve come to give you a
lift, then they’re gone. And we look at the eagles hovering, balancing
on the air, letting the silence return.

THE MOUNTAIN

It is wild up here.
The wind and the rocks and the dry grass
Do not care
Who sees them,
Nor how far you have come.

They are going nowhere.
They can wait
Until you have gone.

But when you’ve gone,
Like silk,
The rocks will tumble
Into lovely shapes.

A veil,
A waterfall,
A plume of stones
To lie on the dry, dry, grass.
Making the mountain beautiful.

A tiny reminder
Of the grandeur of love.

                © 2017 Gwen Grant.