Bill Mitton (26-03-45 / Salford, England)

I stood in tight chested forbodeing
at the hem of your heathered dress
long years on from when
you did your best to kill me.
I brought a garland of bright memories
of the years between then and now to show you
See here my son is born, there his graduation
the continuing song of the life you held to ransom
for three long cold and painful days.
In spite of your dark wrath, I am, still.
Now in sunlight once again your beauty belies
the icy wet stilettos neath your dress
the dark shroud with which in seconds
you ensnare those who you select.
Standing in tight breathlessness upon your crown
The backpack of years weighing heavy
I see the rocks where once I lay broken
from one sunrise to another dawn
for an instant again, death's icy hand upon my heart
then in rain and fading light I descend your flank
the memory of a nightly kiss upon a deep shoulder scar
given I know, in thanksgiving for my life.
I see your own brown scar, a road cut deep into your side
You are nolonger the mountains you were back then
and I am nolonger the man I was.
I suddenly feel that thought I lived inspite of you
I am who I am because of you,
perhaps we are even Now, mountain.