Green Hill

The breathing hills of the Irish green
With waves of wind washing in between
The skipping notes of a beck’ning flute
And the running brook of a valley, serene

Are all alive behind my closed eyes
Living under my imagined skies
A haven safe from darkened minds
And from demons of my own devise
And my city with skies bruised from the rise
Of glass towers built to nature’s demise
And villagers rushing before sunrise
To beat the dawning of slack and decline

The more my roads are cemented and ill
The more my flutes will play their trill
And again sing alive the breathing hills
Until my mind is freed and still


more by A. M. LAINE

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