THE MOUNTAIN MOTHER IS GONE

The mountain mother is gone. One night
she went running down the road and left us
closed
in white crystal eggs
on the lowest sun terrace.

Time rocked us in whirlpools of
leaves and roaring wild beasts until darkness
burst in through the crevices, and we smelt the blood

giddy with loneliness and hunger
we sat down to play with silent flowers, our backs
to the sun-dial. The mountain mother has locked us
in anticipation. Sometimes the shadow of a passing bird
goes by and with it
a thought “did she have eyes?”

Our faces are close to themselves in the grass
clear, sorrowful
and clean of remembrance.

THE MOUNTAIN MOTHER IS GONE