One man's mountain...

Here’s the mountain that I can see from my cottage bedroom window, past the hedge and across the fields in the distance. It isn’t a very big mountain by mountain standards, but it’s big enough. I’ve drawn it a number of times over the years. Sometimes with pens and pencils, pastels and crayons, paint and splatter, but I’ve never really quite caught the soul of it. This time it was water wash with a soft pastel overlay. It’s evening, after a long wet day and I’ve bumped up the green, but the mountain looked very blue that night. Mind you, it’s never the same twice.

There’s something going on in that mountain. I don’t know what it is but each time I look at it I know it to be true. There’s a heart beating within it, something hidden, a magic somewhere deep inside. Something is waiting to be awoken; I don’t know what it is though.

This mountain was once a volcano like all of the mountains around my cottage; perhaps that has something to do with it. Or maybe it’s the stones that stand dotted around its base; left their long ago by long forgotten peoples who wore bronze amulets and dressed in leather. Of course, it could just be that it stands above the landscape taking all weathers, all seasons, and has for millions of years with hardly a change except for the ravages of the elements and man.

Inside though it’s the same as it always was. I can hear its heart beating.

No, I haven't got it right again. It isn't quite alive enough. Next time maybe.