My blanket is an alpine range
Snow-covered silks with dancing suns
fresh from the sky just for the eve,
an omelette of tourists on cotton sleeve.
// Another day a bloodstained scene of war
with flowers the size of fortresses,
stalks streams flowing up the slope,
vessels of thought, of dreamless sleep.
// I poise my lens, a photographer
capturing a snapshot of the History of Man
before I hop on the late night train
to the place where no cameras reign.
I am adding // s to the start of each stanza (save the first) because the line spacing isn’t working.