Morning in the Mountains
Walking in the Mournes as the sun climbs
the gorse is yellow against granite walls.
Down a track through a jarring gate
to the river that plays for my ears.
Sitting on a log I feel the crumbling bark
flaking and cool beneath my fingers.
Time’s meaning dissolves
as I reach to touch the perfect sky.
The path takes me over weathered rock
into the light-
where shadows smell of pine needles
and the sound is bound by the trunks of trees.
The sun catches a window in the valley
as the mountains inhale the light.
A tractor sits like a toy in the farmyard
awaiting the orange call of the cockerel
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