The Land is in My Bones

I remember these hills
Green velvet gown, tattered,
Brazenly allowing bone white skin to peer through
causing the sun to blush
Caressed by breezes
washed by the rain
standing solid as the sky bears down with thunder shouts
and lightning whips.
Gentle sheep and timid rabbits
making a home in every nook and cranny
while buzzards and crows
stay locked in a dogfight
for supremacy of the skies
and Kites, so high, so, so high,
circle lazily on warm currents
watching over the wide world where the oak is king.

Oh! those moonlit walks
and sunrise vigils
held tightly in the arms of the trees
seranaded by the chorus of dawn and dusk.
In these hills, time can stop,
The world beyond could vanish, drop off into space
and it would not matter.
Hidden deep within the ancient coppices of hazel,
beneath the brooding holly,
where deer run free
and badgers set out boundaries.
Yes the world beyond,
of flint stone church
and bustling market town
could dissapear, fall into the sea
for here, among these rolling hills,
these old friendly giants,
I am home.
This land birthed me,
taught me all I know
I need nothing more
this land is in my bones.

© Herne Wyldwood 2010