I like the northern mountain of my home
crouching like a monstrous lion –
with a brown bald head
that shines with summer’s water patches
and upon whose muzzle
stands a huge rhino-horn of stone –
always ready to pounce upon the western.

I like the Chevrolet western mountains
lying still below the vivid blue of the sky –
with wheels of boulders
and axles of earth
and windows of stone –
tearing its way towards the south.

How I like the Eastern mountains
leaning closely together  like collapsing waves
threatening to drown the northern
and splash upon us too.

I like the southern pass
that is a breach on a big circle
of the walls of mountains
often inhaling drafts of cool air.

How I enjoy their encompassing pretence,
always when I give them a poet’s glance
they are on a merry-go-round
whose pivot is my soul.