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