Shrouded in mist the blue mountain raises tall
behind my cabin.
As a young man I would go there, climbing high up
and standing among the trees, becoming as one,
taking root with them,
feeling the rain,
then growing old with the mountain.
Looking down I could watch the ocean
in its relentless quest to free its self of the
confining rocky shore, smashing into it
with ever renewing veracity.
However as age sometimes does
it slows the step.
But as the sun sets and clears beyond the tall oaks
there is a great stillness in the blue dark.
Presently the stars come out diminishing
the pale crescent moon.
I don't go to the blue mountain anymore,
but I still have the sea, and I am content.