Poetry – Over The Hill

Over The Hill

Up the hill, under low grey cloud,

A chill wind in the face,

Kicking leaves,

Hands in pockets,

Scarf wrapped tightly around the neck,


Walking steadily,

Looking, thinking.

Reaching the top.

Stood still.

Surveying the landscape spread below.

Fields still green with crops

In the midday twilight

Of late autumn,

But flat and drab,

Lacking vitality.

Many trees already bare,

Delicate skeletal branches against the sky.

Others defiantly green.

The long grass

Brown, lank,

Drooping into mud,

Into mulch.

The land is visibly dying.

The life draining away.

Opher – 24.10.2020

After the exuberance of spring and the vitality of summer the life is retreating. The birds no longer sing, apart from warning calls, to let others know that I, an evil predator, am lurking nearby.

We are heading for the chill of winter, for the months of frozen death, where much that lives either escapes or hides away deep in the soil, in crevices, dormant, waiting for the strength of the sun to return.

The land dies, then, by Easter, it is resurrected.

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