I Spy With...

Singularity



And at the turning of the road, the Mountain.
Stained skirts of fuchsia and cuckoo spit,
granite fins that please walkers in the brittle summer
and tear the shins of penitents and sinners alike.

Heather snores up flanks until the game is done
and shifting shale turns ankles and slithers like eels in a pail.
The falcon preens an errant quill with a slice of its head
and decides to wait a while.
Eight white bones - the end of a ewe.

And in between - the bog sucks its fill,
glutted with remembrances of oaks whilst
wind-sheared faith pulls shepherds from their slumber
to fight against the heights as time,
all time,
is rendered down to now.