MOUNT ŘÍP

I have seen mountains, glacier bound,

yet, sing of them I can’t, I’ve found.

Overhead vastness, scintillating,

like pale blue gemstones, breath abating;

Causing to swoon, at merest sight,

yet, sing of them, no, try as might.

Yet, when I view that skyline, still,

whose edge is raised by modest hill,

above, a small white fluffy cloud,

- I miss a beat, my heart so proud.

Clouds over ripening wheatfields chasing,

horses in stables, sprightly pacing;

All round the sheafs, in patient stance,

as Saint George summons up his lance

into the dragon’s maw to thrust,

thistles – a butterfly flits past;

And like a ring, bright, dewdrop showered,

the camomile gleams, myriad flowered.

A sight of which I’ll ne’er grow tired,

standing in awe, am moved, inspired

to sing, or even shed a tear,

Mother, our home, like you, so dear!