sits here with the rest of us, so her arse must
be just as cold from this wet bog clay we all
sink into, only she is much too well brought
up to dream of admitting to such a thing.

She does not stir in the breeze, but watches
our green bending forwards, sideways, as wind
reveals this flattening of grass, of heather, even
bracken folds without resistance in these gales,

but not her. Elegantly she sits, and does not
change or move, sure of her solid granite worth,
her hard surface, her weight of being right, always
right. Yet she is generous, and gives advice:

the heather should learn to be less showy,
purple is unseemly, classy grey would be better,
and the bracken is far too spiky, and can’t we
see that a smooth boulder surface, with generous

angled planes, is more refined, and that grass
is much too skinny, and should try to stiffen
so the wind does not squash it, and we all
should have ensured that the sun did not burn us

to unflattering brown and rust. All her suggestions
are given with the best of intentions, and come
with great authority, for isn’t she made of the same
stuff as those mountains we look up to every day.