The green mountains flare.
She smiles as she climbs, wrapped in ancient linen, one foot and then the other.
She looks as if a ghost had volunteered it’s bindings.
She knows, all that fell a part, comes back together in the spiral of summer.
Cow bells fill the air like an acid-house radio station.
Part god, part banker, part sheep dog. She is moved only by the need to continue upwards. Ascension.
Every fable plays upon her shoulders. The maiden exposed to the elements.
Lace and fire. Brimstone and want. Denim and desire.
Curled up at the edge of the earth.
She is finally free.