Sentinel
As the sun fades in the west it casts
It's last light upon the sentinel's hoary flanks
Illuminating her frosted tresses of snow settled like
Silvery locks hanging from the mountain's shoulders.
A taciturn presence she looms above the lands below;
Quiet rivers and streams running down
From her rocks and high places
Carving valleys across the plains at her feet.
You can feel her frowning down at you
When the light's like this and the sun's upon her.
A kind of menopausal fury waiting to be unleashed,
To roar down the valleys she has carved.
© 2019 by Tom King
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