I think of feet tramping and treading waved hills,
Of stories, songs and poems stone tracks inspire,
Of creatures great and small that shout and trill,
Of men and myths of monsters, faeries, giants.
A million years and more, they’ve stood to brood,
A vale eruption, ridgebacked, raw and proud,
They beckon, call upon us to intrude,
And haunting bluebell oceans trumpet loud.
Yet when I climb those verdant slopes once more,
To see the valleys spread out far below,
T’will be like searching for an ancient shore,
That seeing through a spyglass cannot show,
The light and shade illuminated when
My eyes are dim and I shan’t come again.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Posting on dVerse poets for Open Link Night with Brian, Week 80.