Santa Lucias
The highland Santa Lucias
breach the angled bench of sky and earth
with ancient crests dark in
scrub oak outlines
and vast open slopes.
From that world above
atop the grand and cresting vistas
where once dreams were fetched
in moonlit profiles
from deep slumbers
I must have also dreamt the unmoving
mist as it gathered near
an unnamed summit
drawing to itself weightless fragments
of light and motion.
It was a mist concealing
a spirit speaking the language
of unfathomable contours giving way
to more contours overlapping downslope
and over the last oaken ridge.
Was this a language of my
childhood mind as I sought to
wrangle meaning from this alien
landscape ,so as to make it
my own?
If so, where did I sleep?
how did I enter that magical terrain
how did I know its depth
like I know the
flat of my open hand?
These are the mountains of my dreams
rising in sheltered copses
consorting with a thousand faltering voices
in unison to out-sing
even the sea.
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