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