Black Mountain: A collection of Poetry -- by Dewi Zarni

Getting to Black Mountain
The cold night air rushes against our faces
As we run up the hill
To the big white house.
The door of our room shuts behind us as we sleep,
waiting,
waiting,
for tomorrow.

---

The Pool at Black Mountain
Splash,
I jump in.
The cool water splashes up at me
and snow-white bubbles
pop up from the jump.

The water,
a cold cerulean blue
and the sun
a light flax
from under water.

Dusk at Black Mountain
Everyone runs inside to escape the mosquitoes.
We play guitar and sing Grateful Dead and Beatles songs
until the last sapphire glint of sunlight fades to a jet black.
We admit that we’re tired
and walk
up the hill to the house
with the comfy beds,
waiting for us.
 

Leaving Black Mountain
Leaving is the hardest part.
As the hot, sticky summer air blows against our faces,
as we thrust the duffle bags into the trunk and please for one last swim,
as we run to dip our feet in the water before my mom can change her mind,
as we sit down for the long ride before us,
and as the ink-black sky finally tires us,
we unwillingly close our eyes and sleep,
wishing,
wishing,
for yesterday to come
again.

Reflections
As we are persuaded to sleep,
we remember
the cold, cerulean blue water,
the sweet-sounding guitar,
and the sticky, hot summer air.