Poetry

The unimportance of mountains

Peter Coghill

 

Like a moth in and out of snatching hands, Mt Tomah

teases from behind the antennas, part of the elusive mountains

that are squeezed around roofs and set quivering by the car’s motion.

 

At the lights, his eyes hunt them above the traffic and houses;

on days when rain has clarified the air, cliffs can be seen,

to a hard stare, the hint of valleys, the thought of clear water.

 

As he drives entranced by the fluttering hills, their erratic flight

over the city, from across the tanning belly of Sydney

he picks their names: Cloudmaker, Banks, Colong and Shivering ...