Memory

Mountains were formed from your anger

which, cooled to flint rises of angular grey,

hot fluorescent over peaks 

where the sun has lit them a mother of pearl:

I would try to clamber up the jags of you,

but you were steep and sharp and

insurmountable.

When I reached for you, 

you sometimes pulled away 

and then I saw the slip of a grimace;

scree from one side of your mouth

would tumble down the mask

of tense tolerance

before regathering to a stony baseline

of immovable boulders of unfeeling.

I am moored in this memory,

a shepherd lost to the corral 

of fragments, still looking for you

in familiar landscapes, flashing

with moments of recognition,

always disappointed -

it is never you.

Image is from pixabay. Image also on Twitter is this painting: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Albert_Bierstadt_-_A_Storm_in_the_Rocky_Mountains,_Mt._Rosalie_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg