I know there are mountains behind the mist,
Pillars, tarns and glaciers going back
For weeks, cirques which might exist,
Cliffs, alps, Gothic crags, bear tracks,
Behind this wall of swirling cloud, like the sources
Of our lives, unseen, unreachable, distant gullies
Whose warm granite in my youth cloaked me,
Anchored me in wreathes of sky, but now
A myth to tell to strangers, smiling, savvy, who
Don’t believe a word of it. Yet my life hides behind
These unseen crags, like childhood, a dim taboo,
But one reason that all prophecy is blind.