The colour of the mountain’s sinking
& moving across its landscape, leading
the eye to the heart of its mood:
Whisp’ring geometries, complex with hues.

The Dollhouse Mountains are almost fluid,
the mountains, with noise on your mind,
with navel sea and your constellations,
like a figure in rest, reclined.

Round hill-flow *******, your bones made the landscape,
your hips wave the mountains, my love.
Curled honeycomb heather trembles in cold,
cross-legged softness, your thigh becomes.

Your blissful breath, lightning ****** ‘cross brush
golden grass, your stomach it dances.
Low warmth beneath your flow’ring underwear,
lift my brook to your deep canvas.

And at the headland peak, I’ll reach that view,
wrap my poems around your throat.
At the headland peak, I’ll kiss your cheek, and
push in softly inside your throat.