The mountain is a yawning gulf, a well
Of blackest night that opens on the sky
To swallow all the heavenly galaxies
Into its depths, as on voluptuous swell
Incalculably slow to the human eye
They swing about the branches of the trees.
He waits, this hungry beast, weaving a spell
To draw within himself all that come nigh
To peer into his hidden mysteries
Deep in his throat I see one golden cell,
One star that lives within and sends its light,
Homing the trav’ller, telling him of love.
Not quenched by mountain as the lamps above,
But shining bravely in the cave of night.
Weekly Times 22.1.60