Grandfathers are the mountains we call home:
Rugged, rock-faced remnants of our souls,
Alps far grander than our hills and knolls,
Now sheltering the fields through which we roam.
Dare we understand what they have been:
Fathers of the children of our dreams?
As we knew them, bathing in their streams,
They were the wakers of the gods within.
How beautiful they stand, though far away!
Each the guardian of a long lost child,
Reached alone by those whose love has smiled
So happily it danced right through their day.
–Nicholas Gordon, by permission