The Trial of the Mountain

Between three foes he stands
At the fifth hour of his trial.
He is a mountain unmoved.
His claws are broken jagged peaks,
Knuckles are bare stripped bloody plains,
Fingers crack like falling shale.
Knees ache, footpads scraped raw on rough stone.
Blood flows as rivers from cuts like valleys;
They tear through the forests of his fur.
His head throbs from many blows,
Pulsing, pounding thunder of northern storms.
Further his opponents close,
These meant to erode him:
The scouring wind, smoothing the rock faces.
The river swift, carving out the gorges.
Time, ever moving, erasing the hills.
He turns to face each on the fifth hour,
Taking his stance, stilling his mind.
He is the stone that builds the valley.
He is a mountain unmoved.