Winner, Samhain 2003 -- Short, Structured Poem
The Misty Mountains
Gently drifts the mist
o’er those ancient hills
where stately elms and chestnuts,
whose hoary roots are kissed
by singing rills,
with the rushing breezes
swirl in eerie and uncanny tryst.
Feel the silent sound
of the mountains’ breath,
where lonely, ancient ridges
of high and holy ground,
as still as death,
rise to meet the heavens;
and the clouded heavens bending down.
Powerfully to soar
upon the beating wings
of stern and silent eagles
above the forest floor
my spirit sings.
Yet it is this old earth,
that my earthy spirit wanders o’er.
W. William Melnyk
OakWyse
© September 25, 2003
Entered in the Samhain/Bardic Competition
