He’s a glacial mind
ploughing roughshod overland
pushing rude boulders
polishing craggy granite and we
are the moraine in his wake.
Clever. I wonder who you are writing about… :o]
Had to look up moraine — what an absolutely beautiful word! The whole poem’s beautiful, really. Especially dig the image of ‘shearing hilltops.’
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Ray Sharp, The Bard of Liminga