Winter Mountain

by Angela Prew

I love the mountain
for the waterfalls that mark a passage
down its side.
Tears on a loved, familiar face
that flow, unchecked
and then are gone leaving little trace.

On other days, the clouds
mist kloofs and crags
casting veils;
a dancer baring
here an ankle, there a shoulder,
momentarily her face.

A storm arrives
casting its black cloak
over gentle, rounded contours,
muffling clean, clear lines.
She hides her face
until the sun returns
jewelling her in rainbows.

The clear, blue winter days
bring her close
each line clear-etched;
a draughtsman’s sketch
two-dimensional, the backdrop
for a constant drama.


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