Our little car wanders a patchwork of trees
set deep at the mountain’s feet,
past a cottage where the river turns a sheer drop
and an old lady forms in a light dappled window.

Do you see her? There where the old gods
veil and caress the livid rock
out over the outcrop, great globs of grey lichen
turned seafoam in the heady sun.

She was once a great beauty
(they always were, always!)
now flaked as the frittering paintwork
that hides from us a ghost of things to come

so we can keep girlhood for now,
its short shorts worn with silver boots
flowing fast as my light scarf catching the air
in an artless wave of apparent eternity.