Wednesday, 30 June 2010

POETRY PEEK: Caroline Caddy

Stirling Ranges

Driving into the cut-out mountains

their steepness pushes them closer

as if the tops of much younger ranges crowded together.

We peer past each other’s heads and shoulders

as blue thresholds open to reveal

desiccated sides and ridges

weathered tors just high enough

to impede winter clouds.

We can hardly believe these sun-blasted screes

are those elusive slopes ahead

layered gates behind.

Stop. Get out of the car

wind through stunted trees

water where there is none

and up against as close as a tango

the mountain’s shattered stone the smell of stone

the sound of stone.

Their age is their beauty.

It attracts like iron.

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