The Mountain

The wind holds
the hawk´s wings,
over fields gold and green
and in the silence 
of the frost,
in the eerie shadows
of solitude,
the roving heart 
of the marauding fox,
rises and wanders, 
alone with the moon.

Over the dusk of fire and earth
in the slow waves of clouds,
an island of coral
and silver ice,
pure as the sun and snow
a royal sceptre robed in ermine,
castle of earth, sky and stone.

Steep the valley gully gorge
where thunders torrents
of mane tossing mares,
powering rivers and streams
that leap into the mist
as springing deer,
into the Earth´s
marble and granite towers
and thirsting seams.

Bearer of new life
in the commotion of swift birds
and floating butterflies,
awash with mare´s tails
that gallop upon seas and skies.

Alive with a thousand brimming hearts
the bristling forest pine,
where the Wildcat haunts and stalks
the season´s fleeting silhouettes of time,
with sun and shadow
cloud flecked burning ember eyes.