The mountains
slump,
motionless as a Saturday morning teenager,
spoiling my bright morning
reverie
with their
stubborn presence.
Too
there, they are, too greyly-greenly
close at hand
too obstinately
available.
They
smugly wait to
steal again
that time of his that should be mine,
their
sullen call more tempting
than all my honeyed promises.
And he will murmur the same
weak excuses
with that
adulterer's mouth,
skulking away
to spend another
furtive afternoon
in their
chilly embrace.
And return, as
twilight pools at their feet
lathered with
sweat, heavy-breathing,
bright-eyed and satisfied,
To sleep off his
exertions in my bed.