Lumbermen
in the raw timber
I see nothing of the hill
but ruins
what a dreadful thing it is
to look down the precipice
into a grave
board on board
men full of pillage making money
of some honest joy
Poèmes sur le thème : hill
Poèmes sur le thème « hill » sur Poets.by.
Backwoods wedding
day of new vows
all the rough hill sang
Little wedding song
on the hill where we wed
I expect we shall laugh
at us at this world
at what a peak we perceive
but that will do no hurt
to the quiet
Hare-brained
a hare on the white hill
and me at the office
which is which
I may alter my opinion
who is really mad
the office squeezing
but me out of order
The long view
when at a distance the enemy appear on a hill
it is no disaster for the hill
the water singing to the bridge
is past all fear
the night itself is safe
however we roar
Wanderlust
the tower knows nothing of the hill
travel is a sort of music
counterfeiting hands and discourses
not fit for paper that still word away
like a man gone out
of his quiet mind
Sweet By-and-By
where some hope of getting money
where the stairs would not end
where we enter the hill
where my wife hunts for bread.
Landscape with scolding wren
through gaps in the hills
a river of fog
and me here on this wren’s powerline right-of-way
eating lowbush blueberries
The Hollow (40)
wood nettles
that angry guy who hacked at them
with his hatchet
becoming the place
of my fisher sighting
foamflower patch
the long moment
after it vanished
fishing for its name
wilder hills
and deeper hollows
the fisher’s undulating gait
Violet Hill
The first surveyor—1795—
labeled this mountain Violet Hill.
Did he study it in the blue distance,
or see right at his feet
the crowds of violets fluttering
under the attention of the rain?
A warbler just back from the tropics
sings quietly, as if trying to locate
all the notes.
Over the Hills
Dear Todd,
I was taking the broom for a slow shuffle
around the dining room when I heard
the fluting of wild swans & rushed out,
scanning the sky till I spotted the long wedge
high above the hollow, heading north.
They were as dark against the sky
as we must be to them against the ground,
pausing in our Sunday labors, mouths open
as the swans pass over the train tracks
& the river, over the interstate & the quarry’s
enormous silent megaphone,
over a cardinal singing in a barberry hedge,
over junker cars & houses sheathed
in fading asphalt shingles,
over old carpets left out in the yard
Homeland
Far away, beyond the green paddy fields
Beyond the thatched huts and palm tops
A hazy gray blending into darker black
Touching the shimmering white clouds
Mountains stand like sentinels.
It has been raining here; the leaves
Underfoot bear my weight in silence.
I pause – leeches, wriggling, reach out
And clamber up my legs; a flutter in the woods –
A bird? A boar? A deer? Who is it that I disturbed?
In the deep forests, everything is dark and moist.
Steam unfurls in the scattering sunlight.
Silently, I watch – across the ridge, a rock shifts –
In awe, with love, oh with so much love, a tusker in sight.
Above my head, Minivets, Scarlet, like flashes of fire.