Mountains

The mountains stepped across horizon’s ragged hem,
and held accountable the flush and thread of clouds,
as if to mark the point where time began again,
and call to heel the warp and weft of nature’s shroud,
that so, once more the image could be clear arranged,
and vista be declared as vision knelt in homage; bowed.

Cacophony of light in rumpled ranks fell into certain line,
as universe drew breath through soil to drag forth rocks,
and bring the breast of earth in rough, and hard-edged rise,
to cast the landscape high; all reason so to mock,
that solid, stable dirt could be easily transformed,
to pour like liquid upwards; thrown in brutal shock.

Such grandeur in the ordinary has been long confirmed,
through humble grains of soil and rubbled stones,
ingredients which nature stirs and turns through ages past,
to so create topography, with certainty bemoaned,
and in the doing raise up to heaven all that can be cast;
this world in all its beauty; such places we call home.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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