In spring the mountain
is covered with flowers,

simple gentility. We would
like to deserve it, to earn

this right to pin meanings
and glue truths to the skies,

the cloud-filtered aurora,
the breeze covered with

the gossip clubs of bees
and diamond drip of rain.

Outside, the sun’s dress,
is stretched on the ragwort,

nettles and fallen feathers
on casual display.

Further away, the hills
scramble over each other,

their skeletal rocks tumbling
after everyone turns away,

my eyes bright brown again
as the ocean stays grey.