An Age of Slumber
The landscape like a sleeping woman lies.
Tresses of birch, oak and ash, sprawl and tumble
to her shoulder of rock,
curved hill of hip meets the horizon.
One slender ridge outstretched,
to cushion her weathered head.
To trek across path strewn feet,
ramble up grass swathed thigh
and clamber over hedge rowed breast.
To gently roust from infinite imaginings
and stare into fathomless eyes.