The Spring Hill
The willow tree’s branches flicking like a whip,
The hill pokes out of the ground like a knuckle on a hand,
The grass flowing like the waves on the ocean,
I relax in my place of solace as the river runs,
Looking out past the rolling hills.
The wind tickles my cheek as if a fairy is dancing on it,
The bleak sky is as grey as an old man’s eyes,
The sun hides behind the clouds like the confidence
in a shy person,
The rabbits hide back in their burrows, the birds
flap towards their nest,
The fog thickens, laying low over the flowing water.
The cold wind is as harsh as the wind on Everest,
Across the river a dirt road stretches across like a
I make the return journey home over the hill as round
as a dome,
I walk home before curfew, awaiting my next visit.
The Spring Hill.