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Hill Of Dreams

This hill is a dream space.

Its roll is gentle and comforting, and

it is barely a hill at all, a hummock

curving from the flat.

I look at it and sometimes expect it to move; to unfold,

to dip and rise as a wave, an undulating blanket

shaken out across the land.

Only its shadows move, marching across its tan and green,

moving away, each with a story of a tree, an angle,

the flavour of the day.

The rise is studded with trees – sentries – and its curves change with the light, one moment a pillow,  then a bossomy rise,

lifting and falling: it is Nature at play, a swell, a moment.

Watch me. Watch me.

I am yours


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