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Serra de Tramuntana

Most say the sky is constantly changing
and so it is: from soft white to 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 olive terraces
and pine groves, the all-so-solid, the fixed
formations that change more than the sky.

Bleached by mist or burning ember red,
the Tramuntana looms closer every year,
huddling 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 who can turn away
with a look that says: I have my own life too.

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