Sunday, March 29, 2009

Bike Ride

Beyond the bird-wielding fields and dim discerned
in summer's fragrant falling dusk,
the far flung mountain slowly is interred
from the bottom up; sheer diamond lines diffused
so that it seems to float, like cloud: strange, that
over the thronging grasses and woods' belt,
the stronghold mount, ever white, becomes a ghost.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Most of my biking happens in the city. Thanks for this evocative poem.