The Call of the Mountains

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A sweet reminiscence of my youth.

They call to me,

Those silent sentinels of the Blue Ridge,

Whose misty, musky mornings

Shimmer damply of dew drops

in the chill break of dawn.

 

I remember,

The presence of the hills

As they surrounded the byways of my travels.

Little dots of candle light,

From the many hidden hillside windows

Giving hope and comfort

To the traveler seeking guidance in the night

 

How they beckon,

In the early dawn,

The glens and gorges yawning,

With only a glimmering ribbon

Of a creek or river.

Or maybe an ancient railroad line

To mar the valley floor.

 

O, how I recall!

Electric energy disguised in light

Dancing like a fiery faerie

Over mountain tops

While Thor, with Mjolnir by his side,

In anger beat his mighty drum.

And wind and rain beat cadence

To the stormy song of Spring.

 

They reach out to me,

Those evergreen-clad ever present

Rolling mounds.

Where eagles reign

And ride the thermals

Reaching regal heights.

Only to fall back to the Earth

To snatch their prey, in a single, fell swoop

And wing it off, in talon’s grip

Nest-ward to feed their young.

 

I am rapt,

In my remembrance

Of the mountains of my youth.

How I stood upon a rocky top

And looked over a jack-pine carpet

With a single, deciduous tower

Reaching skyward.

A great oaken hand

Above that sea of evergreen.

 

The hills, they hearken,

As the harvest of the season

Paints a portrait on the Earth

In the changing of the leaves.

The air takes on a heady, humus, humour

As the days decline in length,

At last, to break the fast of Summer

In cornucopious feast

And harbinger the cold.

 

I reminisce,

And am reminded of my youth.

The white-capped peaks where folks of every age

Take to their toboggans and their skis

And score the slippery slopes

With runners and with boards.

And little ice-bound men of snow

With sticks for hands

And eyes of coal

And noses made of carrot

Battle little gremlins throwing frozen missiles

At them as they silently stand sentry

Over every childhood yard.

 

Lo! They call to me,

The far mountains of my youth,

And I remember.

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