In the mirrored black void of the mountain he goes his way,

clumps of suckling reed bruising the granite

where his boots dare not stay.

Clouds, like the myths of giants press down their claims

in the valleys and bind him to promises

of instinct on some broken way.

The tilt of fell and stream are wedded in a dream

known to panic sheep - whose forms are a desecration

a sacrifice to the blinded face of sculptured time.

Patiently the sun waits on its throne, waits to draw back the veil

like a cave dweller deep in his walled grave

never knowing nor imagining the inner living night.

 Still he goes

shadowed by mist that clings and chills;

he heads home not quite knowing where it lies

and the mirrored black void of the mountain

caring not, echoes his progress.