Some see the mountain as malevolent
others as benign.
I see it as constantly changing.
Dustings of snow on its crown
resemble wisps of spare hair
on a capricious old man.
Along the river, white sails catch the sun.
A luxury liner, like Gulliver sleeping,
dwarfs the city. Hobart relaxes
sheltered from the Roaring Forties
by the mountain’s massive presence.
Cloud-free, it looks out over the tree-line
over the suburbs nestled in foothills
and casts its gaze on the Derwent.
Gulliver wakes and sounds his signal
of imminent departure.
Kunanyi watches for clouds
considers its mood.
