She sits, with angelic aura.
Her knowing eyes pierce imaginations,
compel us, in awe,
We stand and stare, at a woman we
Do not understand. Reassuring the
World with her motherly smile,
While crimped brown hair caresses
The periphery of her pinnacle.
Her velvety skin absorbing sapient
Beauty from the surrounding mountains,
She seems content, but not at rest,
Her arms folded, her dress is black.
Waiting for the painter, to finish his work,
Waiting for her god to give back what he took,
Living life for a reason to live, in this
Uncouth world, she is temporarily here
Like the sun in Scotland, she knows, and
Can’t decide what to feel.
The deed is done, she stands
And stretches, scratches her itches.
Pockets the money. Work to do.
The mountains and streams carried
Into the distance. Cattle and voices
The only ones waiting. She expels a sigh,
And shuffles back to her cottage.
"Mona" bellows a man from
Inside her cottage.