Your True Name.
We gift you names
chosen for our love of you.
Your familiar contours rise
In snow-cloaked radiance.
Your peak a beacon orientating us
to the land, to each other, to ourselves.
The names on our lips are offerings.
We crave to be close to you,
wrapped in the folds of your flower- strewn slopes,
sheltered against your breast.
Your weather- worn brow stands proud,
water-hewn and as creased as a crone,
cradling the remains of long- buried kings,
as time erodes to the bone.
If I call your name into the squall,
an incantation to awaken,
Snowdon, Mynydd Eira, Yr Wyddfa
will you unfold before me, reveal your mystery?
These names I utter are ours, not yours.
You speak in ancient tones, older than words;
your mother tongue the echoes of deep, earth-womb
rumblings dissipating through millennia.
So still, you slumber.
Your true name a murmur heard behind the wind.
Leaf Pettit