These mountains are not lovely, they
are clothed in tattered brown and grey
like the local old men who go
to sit outside the Texaco
each morning to mumble and grimly joke
and breathe and blow tobacco smoke
and squint at cars as they pass by
beneath the solemn bearded sky
stained by smolderings in the hills
shrouding barns and abandoned mills
which loom up wraith-like from the past
and stand remembering to the last.
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