MT. WASHINGTON

by GWEN AUSTIN

Copyright 1997



To a westerner, Mt. Washington appears 
as a mere zit on the horizon.
But, to an easterner,
she is a mountain.

Her steep, narrow, twisting road 
challenges any driver.
Especially if timid ones
take their half from the center.

Panoramic views stretch the eyes
unless veiled by clouds below.
Creator of her own weather, 
it could be windy or calm,
warm or cold.

An oft-photographed plaque proclaims
'It is here, at 6288',
where 231 mph winds are the 
highest observed by man.'

A mere dot poking along, trailing black smoke
grows steadily larger.
Soon, a whistle announces the arrival of
'the little engine that could' 
as the narrow gage cog railway train toodles up
to disengorge camera-toting lookers.

The drive down affords more
over-the-edge vistas
of pockets of still-leaved trees.
Maple's red, yellow and orange, 
oak's leathered bronze,
white and black striated birch's lime yellow,
all accent bare-branch brown 
and graded-green pine landscape.

Homeward-bound, we delight in
the day's grand finale.
A painter's palette sunset
fades into  maroon, 
then gray, 
then blue-black night.