Picture with my Pen

I am taking a picture with my pen, 

of the green hills and the grey rock 

and the blue water down below; 

of the bright orange poppies with their aching softness 

and how the sunlight shines on everything; 

of the butter melting on my Irish soda bread I brought along 

and of my water bottle, now a life-force of hot metal. 

I did not bring my hat on purpose, and the sun shines bright and full in my face.

I suppose my hair gleams like the golden poppies, 

just sitting quietly, 

like me 

upon the mountain, 

with their petals uplifted to the sky.