The Whisper of Mountains

Monday, 20 January, 2025

If you stand still long enough
to let the mountains frame your gaze—
the ones that cradle Lions Bay,
their jagged peaks leaning into the sky
like old friends exchanging secrets—
you might feel them shift,
shoulder to shoulder,
their murmurs carried on a wind
that swirls between their ridges,
an embrace you cannot see
but can feel in the hollow of your chest.

Close your eyes,
and their voices deepen,
a timbre older than language itself.
They speak not of us
but to each other,
to the earth that holds their weight,
to the sky that opens its arms to their edges.

The word peace
lands on your shoulders,
a quiet feather of a thing
that somehow holds the heft of ages.
You feel its weightless weight,
its insistence that stillness
is the only response to such grandeur.

Your breath slows,
folded into the rhythm
of something ancient,
something that will remain
long after your footprints
have dissolved into the shore.

You do not touch it,
not really.
It brushes past you,
a gentle refusal to be known
but a willingness to be felt—
as if the mountains themselves
are reminding you
that some things are meant
to hold us
without ever being held.

We are on Mountain Time and it is fluid.