The hill does not look civilised;
It has gone back to wilderness.
Red-clawed hunting beasts must rest here;
A bubbling spring lets them water.
The vegetable garden lies
trampled by hoofs, flattened by time,
blurred under a dense mat of weeds.
Birds flit-flash among the willows.
A knocked stone wall, fringed with bindweed,
once shelved a terrace to the front.
Tense solitude haunts the fired house
with something aged past memory.
Suspicious eyes stare out at you,
surprised that after all the years
you would stand peacefully still here.
At the top of the hill the wind
robs your breath and deafens your ears.
There, a pall hangs over time’s head.
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