Self-Portrait As A Landscape
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Sheena Blackhall
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Often I let the world slip off my edges
Like an old mountain. Heave life from my ledges
Into the Past’s morass of bogs and sedges
But I am drawn to thresh-holds under bridges
Where waves flash fins, those star-struck tinny ridges
Where river doors swing wide, on giving hinges
No mountain peak for me. Horizons shrink
To what is do-able. An old cat’s wink
At speeding mice. The moon has turned its face
Sphinx-like, to marble, beyond Time and Place
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