Sleeping Mountains


He sleeps
Through millennia:
The days and years

His body
Wrapped in a mottle skin coat
Weathers enduring seasons.
In their raw state,
Abrasive and unforgiving,
Fracture his skin
To cleaved splinters
Sloughed clattering
In scree slips,
Through which
Sparse plants
Eke meagre.

This is how it is
Upon his slumber-back dormancy,
Where heather and bracken
Strewn wirey-wild
Flower purple
And unfurl
In fronded reach,
In nooks
And boggy patches
Between white cataracts
And the slow lichen roses
On every blemished slab and edifice.

Through this
He sleeps,
As time
Flows unnoticed.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

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