some mornings i forget
with the metal of wheelbarrow
leaning cool into the curl
of fingers damp with mash,
the grind of grit in axle
a constant to the step gravel crunch
of road underfoot
buckets shuffling
among the slices of hay
and the stamp and breath of horses
waiting down the end of the road,
old now with sharp flanks
and gentle eyes,
and it is okay
it is okay –
we bloom
we fade
we bloom again
and some mornings
breath comes hard
with weight of bale
or sacks of grain that were
nothing to me
when the girls were young
and i shaped the world
one handed with a child on hip.
and some mornings
breath comes heavy
rushing the empty
spaces they leave behind
when they go.
some mornings
i forget there is a mountain
forget to lift my eyes from the road
forget to look above the the crowded hedges
of blue spire plectranthus and cape honeysuckle
wild orange and thick bright with wings
and bird chatter.
some mornings i forget
that the earth underfoot
is where the mountain that rises
high peak above green folds began.
that my feet have been turning to stone
that i have been here
woman becoming mountain
all along.
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