the hills around it lie
humped under their blankets
black-green forests
stare at their faces in its mirror
grey around the temples
deep wrinkles
between the ground down hills
winter squats over them
but water still flows under ice
easternmost west-flowing river
cuts the shale and slate
weathers out trilobites
dusty grey casts of what
once crept along the sea floor
faceted eyes still staring
in a small cardboard box
treasures from when
I picked rocks by the west-flowing river
my own face in the mirror
Music and poem © Judith Kerman