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Serra de Tramuntana

Most would say the sky is constantly changing
And so it does: soft white, gentian blue,
Tones of pewter shading to granite black
With glints of quartz. But it is the rocks,
The mountain rocks, the bluffs and cliffs,
The spurs and ridges, the terraces
And pines, the all-so-solid, the fixed
Formations that change more than the sky.

Bleached by mist or burning ember red,
The mountain range looms closer every year,
Huddled round the citrus valley, reaching
Tapering arms down to the bay, hugging
Sóller like a mother, proud, bashful,
Encouraging, admonishing, keeping her
Own secrets, a mother able to turn away
With a smile that says: I have my own life too.

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