Mountains

White granite-mountains,
In the horizon...they rise.
They are stone monuments,
Reaching upward in the skies.

They are chiseled forms standing,
As I see them there.
Raising great craggy-heads,
That bow down in prayer.

Croppings of white-granite,
Where hawks make their rounds.
And storms of the winter,
Has left streaks to the ground.

Trees wrap them in arms,
The great ones in size.
And make them so beautiful,
To up-lifted eyes.

Land-marks...we see them,
Their prestige...so elite.
And the glory of vision,
Makes the scenery complete.

E.P. 1908 - 1989

The land-mark is Castlerocks