The Blue Mountains
have never worn their colour so well—
on their backs
I may lie down and feel
the pressing of ground against sky
and realise I ride their wingbones,
realise I witness the slow birth of new
I breathe on wingbeats,
fill the cæsuras in the earth's phrases
with a strange music,
learn to see the hills and mountainscapes
as they are. I consult them
like tea leaves, become a flute
destined for their lips alone.
In winter, the way the tree-strands
along their tops look like lace:
old Grandfather Mountain
becomes his widow, doily-shrouded and mourning.
My songs, by spring, will bring the birds back to her hair.