Hill, you and I have seen
only upheaval since our birth.
When I was torn from the universal womb
I echoed your silent cry.

You have been carved by time as I am.
From your forests grow flutes
oracular drums and nymphs.
The ancient ones still speak of the time
when the gods, tired of the heavens
descended to earth, and with sensual fingers
and primeval clay, moulded your torso and breasts.
They also scooped the clouds
and poured them over cliffs
to fashion your silver hair.

With subterranean instincts
you have seen habitations, and
generations of children come and go.
When you descend in green bends to the townfolk
you bring garments of fog, rural baskets
of mushrooms, wildflowers and birds.
Until one day I died and took new birth
in your legendary woods.

During the festive season
when the cold gathers holly leaves, and
lips of boys and girls meet again in benison
I was lonely with you but heard your voices:
horns in the distance and maidens
and wild horses whinnying.

Hill, you have preserved from decay
hearts like mine,
faltering forward in absurd death.
And it should be.
Clouds come home when they find you.