Those Ancient Hills

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Places.”

Those ancient hills of Devon

carved and sculpted into wild beauty

by millenia of harsh and gentle weather

trampled by roaming sentient creatures

what have they seen,

those silent rocks

exposed above the rough ground?

what colours in the skies above?

what visual poetry have they witnessed

and what forgotten life forms

have died beside them?

should I never again romp those hills

should my eyes close without a final view

or my ears have no last opportunity

to hear birds singing in those English trees

the growl of a distant tractor ploughing a field

and the laughter of my siblings

while the church bells chime out their music

calling the faithful to church in the nearby village

still all of my senses will unfold to the memories

of a child playing and skipping, possessing the world

running up and rolling down those beloved ancient hills.

© Jane Paterson Basil

A Loving Army

This poem is dedicated to Dale, a courageous man with an inspiring blog, who led me to the realisation described in the sonnet.

For years anger and self-pity mirrored my eyes

The drug addiction of others was my vile enemy

Trapped within mother love from which I could not flee

I was terrorised by the manipulation and the lies

Within my house: yet when I became ready to revise

And realise that addicts were victims just like me,

And we were in similar straits, still I couldn’t see

The bigger picture, and recognise all our allies

Whose rebellious chemistry confounds the brain

And their struggling families weep over a similar plight

for their beloved casualties of sex, gambling and pain.

The disease of addiction is the foe that we must fight

If we stand together and tell our truths without shame

We’ll make a loving army, leading others to the light.

© Jane Paterson Basil