By Kobus Moolman

There is no mountain at the front of the new house.

There are only birds and thin fever trees.

There are only small stones and the shouts of children.

At the back of the new house is where the mountain lives.

The mountain with its hard high forehead.

The mountain with its infinite number of steps into the clouds.

At the back of the new house there is the mountain.

And small plants that survive only on air.

And yellow fish that change behind the curtain of the wind.