Holy mother of grotesque forms, whose hair cascades over the rocks, and meanders through waiting grasses, bending to the rhythm of your breathing. The jagged peaks, the forlorn clouds, the whispers and rumours of storms that disappoint, the call of the raven, the ravenous liaisons of wolves in the moor, all have your blessing and eternal guidance. The knobby-kneed tree with its twists, and awkward skyward dances, is the flower that crowns your head. and I lie in waiting, for the day when you share the light with beauty and its silliness.