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BRENDAN RYAN

The Mountain

In the pitch darkness of a dream
it is the type of shadow you can depend upon.

A conspicuous feature as seen from the headstones.
Visible from all angles

it towers over cypress plantations,
milkers following a trail of silage across a paddock.

I remember a ribbon of fire skirting the north-east ridge
and my disappointment the first time

I took in the view of Kelly’s paddocks.
Years latter, parts of my family were enveloped

in fog as we tramped upward
past cattle troughs, ferns and lichened rocks.

It was as if we had been finally accepted
by something we had been staring at

our whole lives. There was no view
we were stuck with the people we had become.

It is only in memory that I lose my place
and the mountain begins to rise up

like an image taking shape in water
shadowing me across paddocks

until it owns me, until I return
to finally see the mountain for what it is.