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Show Blue, blue mountains Grandfather stoked the fire fifty years ago, the wind tore smoke like a grey scarf from the crumbling chimney in the old house, the last place on the long road to blue, blue mountains. Father was sick, blanketed, a child alone in the upstairs bedroom. His cough kept Grandmother awake though she did not go to him. She stared out through the window of rippled glass, from an unlit room through sheer curtains at the white-sand moonlit road to the dark mountains. I was there, a face had not been given me, I was a shadow, a presence potential in lamplight, wavering against the flowered wall, eddying up the chimney throat in a current of smoke that the wind caught like foam in a riptide and scattered between earth and stars, far above the empty, open road to snow-blind mountains. |
