I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world,
to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

8 September 2011

Mountain Home

‘You will travel north,’ the seer said,
‘to a bay in the great ocean.
If you look at the water, then turn
one hundred and eighty degrees,
you will face a strange-shaped mountain.
That will be the place of your home —
your new, your real, your destined home.’

And so it was to be, but first I came
just for a visit. My friend who lived here said,
‘There’s someone special I’ll take you to see.
Now close your eyes. Don’t open them
till I say.’ She wanted to drive me past the sign
that said Mt Warning. I opened my eyes only
when we reached the foot of the slope.

We climbed just a little way, enough for me
to meet the trees and the brush turkeys
and talk to the mountain herself. Tell me
all you like that the energy’s male. I say
it changes to masculine near the top. I spoke
with a Goddess that day, and all the other days.
I’ve never reached the top. I have no need.

I had met this mountain before, in meditations
when I lived far from here. I traversed in thought
her deep crystal pathways; discovered secrets.
‘She calls you,’ people told us when we moved
up from Melbourne to live in her vast Caldera. 
‘Some she calls; others she spits out.’
I’ve seen that too. I don’t believe I’m one.

Eighteen years have passed quickly.
She has hosted Reiki Master initiations,
meditation groups, channellings,
and many solitary walks on her lower slopes
as well as presiding over Pagan rites.
She has moved me around her valleys,
a few years here or there, where I am needed.

But never too far from my source.
Now I’m close in, the closest I’ve been.
I’m told I have come to rest in my final home.
And it suits me. I walk out every day
and look at a ring of mountains, most of all
that great, strange-shaped mountain I belong to.
It began as seduction and became a marriage.

30 Poems in 30 Days: 7, a relationship with an inanimate object.

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