The Coast Mountains
A clear azan, to remembrance, is called,
that reverberates, soundless, in the sky
and penetrates her soul through her eyes,
making her reach for her worn gore-tex shawl
and begin, a pilgrimage, to those walls
of scree and basalt, whose ragged spires arise
like minarets from prayer halls where inclined
pilgrims, recalling what’s greater, exalt.
She breathes oxygen more logical here;
there’s no rhetoric-haze like the valley
and street’s, whose unstudied scholars adhere
to an arrogant guise that no prophet
supplied. From her spire she has one view, free
from persuasion, save by what’s naturally clear.
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