To brew the collection of forces
Required to grow a mountain
Out of a molehill with only one mole
The dirt that you gather comes from
Outside the mind
Peaky craggy outcomes unearth themselves
As an ingredient in a cocktail of
Nature's garden herbs
Under the auto-tutelage
Of a determined soul
Unsure about the applied gravity
Reading into and out of:
Put downs laid out
By more groupish folk
Who see by a standard
And blot out the smoke
But these fires burn
Without pejorative sun
Handed good turns
By one and just one
Roman Ryan 