HILL TOMB

Creeping around the pockered hill,
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Sunlight varnishes branches crimson.
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Time seemed to stand still,
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Skin taunt began to moisten.


The old must die,
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New must come forth from its tomb.
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Nearby a falcon flies high,
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Casting an eye on nature's bloom.


Out of Gods home a humble life,
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Not human but a living creation.
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Now eager to join the wildlife,
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Wing ribbons dry slowly and harden.


Distant hills with glory on there summits,
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Grassland waits for thy scythe.
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I had to admit bathed in a yellow gauntlet,
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Life was so good as I writhe.