Oh, to my ritual soaking
I roll up my sleeve
To grip the mountain
It’s rocky peaks a punky pink
It snaps into two
Tectonic plates
As soft as bubble gum
As one is swallowed by a waterfall
Spurting plumes of plum
The other, crushed with a sandcastle crumble
Crafts bubbles from the fountain
And when the bombs fall
They sound just like a whisper
Of clean golden dawns
In crisp mid-September
When to nature returns
The spring of our toils
That’s when we shall bask
In Earth’s heavenly oils
Harry Browse 