by John Swain
Mountainside like the shoulder
of a warrior
whose wound was
draped in mosses and ferneries.
In an opening of stone
I looked for wild apricot vines
beside the place
where three streams met and fell
into an opal pool.
My horse lowered
his muscled neck to drink water,
I felt rejuvenation
astride this wild throne.
In the distance
blue summits carry
the names of all who passed here.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment