There is nothing as lovely as watching clouds rolling across mountain tops,
licking them with their glorious wet lips,
sumptuously sliding along the ridge,
or nestling half way down the neckline of a mountain range,
I evaporate days watching the water cycle spinning before me,
squeezing itself over the tallest peaks,
before flushing down the slopes towards us,
a hurtling, ecstatic shower of pleasure,
turning the tap on.

And, that is not all, I can enjoy the mist rising from summer heat tarmac,
caressing my toes, pulling me forwards and down,
marvel at the whirl of the flush,
and drop stone after stone into a heaving lake.

So, now you know,
get yourself immediately to a window or room with a view,
into a cable car or a glade,
the basket of a hot air balloon,
and be drawn into the mist,
feel it tickle your skin,
wriggling its fingers under your shirt,
thrilling the back of your neck,
and, if you are lucky, playfully plunging its moist tender tongue into your right ear,
like the glaciers, your time has come to melt.