A mountain rarely trims itself to tidy minds:
something’s always out of shape or broken
off: there are no perfect pinnacles or coronets.
And protean, it gives up its identity only
around slippery corners.
Yet a child might
scrawl that outline from the east, and I’d
believe any tale he might care to tell:
fortress at the end of a lake or the world
even, hidden valley of temples and flowers.
I’d believe that the dangers weren’t just
height or ice or rockfall, that those were
the kind of walls small people must scale
in order to pull off something gallant,
magical, carving themselves into legend.
[from MTFLG, McIndoe]
© The Estate of Bill Sewell 2004