house on a hill

the whispering swish of the wind in trees
sounds like the sea to me,
for I live land-locked and dropped
in the centre of God's own country.

it's to the hills i turn
to feel free; inviting mounds of
mossy green with blobs of autumn mustard,
scattered over lumps and bumps

that cry out to be discovered,
covered in boot-clad feet
made for walking in peat-bogs.
i want to know these here hills like
the back of my hand.

i stride out above
to escape this strandedness,
feet moving, regardless
of my twitching head.

instead i see the run-down mill,
the field upon field and farmyards,
the friendly sight of future hills rising
and the manure which fills

my nostrils with beautiful disgust.
i meditate upon the rust of
a broken-down tractor,
there's an aged house just here on the hill;

overrun with spiders and the
creaks of anscestral toes and feet.
how many toes can a person love in a lifetime? there's an aged house here on the hill,
and one day i might
live here please.