The Hill

I could paint pictures of picnics,

Sing songs of ciders, sat serendipitous as the

sets. She melts into the skyline, summoning

her star-crossed lover: the moon.

Like parallel lines, the two will never meet,

Chained to their posts by gods. Or Science.

Yet, countless miles apart, she strokes him,

and he beams with light.

I am just a pinprick on nature's speed bump,

A place that giants once roamed and ruled.

Maybe they still do in their kingdom over the horizon,

but fear and impossibility prevents me from disturbing them.

Now, small men scar it. They stab, and wound, Mother Nature.

They care not - or have forgotten - that she once cradled us.

A tree stands alone beside me - his head hung like a snowdrop.

He cannot escape the image of his dying loved ones.

They have been replaced by impostors, hanged by electrical wires.

If the tree had a choice, he would do the same.