a mountain

a mountain

you open the door
a door that is friend
in its wood its paint that
smells still of its making
such a door its panels
sawn patted & nailed
into place by a knowing
hand such a door

outside you look in that
direction
whence come your days
a mountain there of
what was, what is & what
is coming through shade
fed with handfuls of sun
that something almost
a word so close to
the tongue or sense
of speaking it comes

somebody is waving
from those flanks
of journey horse-drawn
shadows on the slopes
wind ploughing stones
& memories of grass

somebody is waving
just one of their words
like a letter
from the hand of
the dear dead
the dear lost dead
this mountain
is the backstop
of breath

near or far this mountain
is never less
a festival
burns in its night
there you hear
guitars song climbing
on the evening the
rounding of song
the dancers bunching
swaying apart again
like tufts of pine
needles somebody
there is telling you
in their song

in their drinking
their toast
to the stars

you never
let sight go
of that mountain
whatever
earth you tread
or sky you
touch in the
space of your
fingers

to Duncan Watt
Beijing, april 2008

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