His Turn

THE PAINTER

For all of its strength

the sun can barely

keep at bay

the chill of the alpine breeze.

She sits in front of her easel

as her brush dances

pauses

then dances again

As she captures

the freedom

the majesty

the emotion

Only to be released again

into the hearts and minds

of those captivated

by her art.

SHE HAS MY HEART

Surrounded by the expanse

of the volcanic plateau

and drawn towards

the snow crusted mountains

We both sit here

each with our own focus

Hers a brush

Mine a pen

Engrossed in the magic

of mimicking what

we see and feel

For all of the harshness

majesty and grandeur

I find my mind

returning again and again

to her

for she has my heart.

TO THE MOUNTAINS

Peace.

Whipped around by the wind

warmed by the winter sun

sung to by the battered flax

frowned upon by the commanding mountains.

But peace, easy in its age old form

free from. a man’s ambition

Peace, rolling lazily

across the tussock and rock-strewn land

echoing its message from long ago.

inviting a response from deep within

flirting with my spirit

to arise and come forth

to look to the mountains

from whence my help comes

to the source, the author

of peace.