These are the hills that I know
Rising and falling
In front and surround and mass.
Green into blue – and then into purple
And a stream through a shingled white cast.
These are the hills that I know
Of caked brown footsteps by rainshine
Down-paths and up-paths in fog
Where the thunder of crickets match the thunder of water
Not seen – just felt – in fall.
These are the hills that I know
Mountains and forests
That shrug into white-feathered sky.
Highland and lowland and rushes of green land
Bowing to green-whiskered I
These are the hills that I know
White browed memories of autumn
Tooth and warmth in jagged lines of mist.
First born to snow and last born to winter
Sleepy low lines of purple to kiss.
These are the hills that I know
A touch of smoky steaming
Brushing by eyelashes dim
Muffled and soaked in mudpaper cloaked
A little path with a wood-peckered rim.
These are the hills that I know
And a little window calling
Into drowning foraging sky
And the first bird that wakes – and the last bird that calls
And the sun that blows the peep by.
These are the hills that I know
A faraway yearning
Growing smaller as they fade beneath the sky
A wheel in a storm – and some hush-hushed forms
Of music – and fried-egg goodbyes.
