The Mountain
Writhes itself in clouds
Shyly blushing in its elegance
Pale tinted early morning
Empyreal reality touches
Lightly on the heart
Dew glistened webs
Across stout grasses
Between steep rocks
Lend other world
Mystic magic to
Fresh days dawn
Wild child of nature
Calls this her own
Fleet of foot
So gently touching
Upon the land
A fairies hand
So open heart
To this a dreams
Desire and let it
Be
Julie
Back to Poems
|