Hill

Hill, you and I have seen only upheaval since our birth. When I was torn from the universal womb I echoed your silent cry. You have been carved by time as I am. From your forests grow flutes oracular drums and nymphs. The ancient ones still speak of the time when the gods, tired of the heavens descended to earth, and with sensual fingers and primeval clay, moulded your torso and breasts. They also scooped the clouds and poured them over cliffs to fashion your silver hair. With subterranean instincts you have seen habitations, and generations of children come and go. When you descend in green bends to the townfolk you bring garments of fog, rural baskets of mushrooms, wildflowers and birds. Until one day I died and took new birth in your legendary woods. During the festive season when the cold gathers holly leaves, and lips of boys and girls meet again in benison I was lonely with you but heard your voices: horns in the distance and maidens and wild horses whinnying. Hill, you have preserved from decay hearts like mine, faltering forward in absurd death. And it should be. Clouds come home when they find you.