Crafted Hills

A poem for Penne.

The hands that shaped these crafted hills
With cupping hands now lie,
In ancient times the will of God
On silent wings passed by.

Here, where hilltops whisper rain
For twisted roots to draw,
Or forage with their fearsome tusks
The prehistoric boar.
   
Rising up on spanning wings
The buzzard’s flight defies
The force, that from the earth’s core claims
Dominium of the skies.

In verges peep, from wayward stems,
The clinging poppies hold,
Where, dry as earth, the rattling grain
Stretch far in lines of gold.

Softly, dusk folds round her arms
As Penne’s paths twist home,
Her mighty peaks now gather round
For loving hearts to roam.

Clive Harvey.  c 2024.
Written in the locality, early June 2024.

© Clive Harvey