scorched hill

stand on the scorched hill
you'll see how far from the grey
sickly sky overcast overhead
the scorched hill slumps
cactus sneer, thin trees leer
and rocks downcast
the bald hill hangs its head

but what makes me melancholy
is that for all that and all that
my scorched hill owns no tragedy
too high a genre and the horizon
too hillrolling flat
in 2D my hill rises
sullen ashen low

the hill is no wasteland
it seethes with life
rodent activity along dry
clay mouths of streams
where water trikles in winter
parched throat touched
by its blessing
and stray dogs, sandy, rheumy-eyed
and foxes neat as cats with tails afire

and valiant fists
of sticks that stick
to pathetic
do not aspire
much beyond the creeping
knee-high splendour
of unscathed proud plants below
and on the opposite
green smiling hill

always the shrubs
retire, downtrodden fireworks
beneath the boot, quite
mute after rain
but once I watched them rise
clash of dry twigs
in a scracthy wind
clatter while the trees bend
and my hill, rising
sullen ashen low
sneers at mock duels, dry chatter
knows the ash will be the fertilizer
knows too soon for glory
the grass will grow

02/03