This land rolls like the ocean
Tall Peaks rising to crash on the distant horizon
And though my feet stand on dry land
I am adrift.
Ripples dance in circles round rocks buried deep beneath the water’s surface;
In fairy rings.
The sky, burns.
Morning tea in a pretty china cup.
Warmth to soothe, colour of eggshell.
And the promise of a tickling buzz that will clear this sleep-full head.
No small stone today.
The moss has hairs, which stand as tall as trees on their own tiny mountainside.
Galloping over the horizon,
Fluffly white clouds hurry in to view, moving aside the great grey mass overhead,
Its edges gilded by the Sun;
A promise of brighter things to come.