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

THE CIRCLE

In this dark haven for the dead
geometrically carved stone
juts between contrived angels
organic but not sentient;
grass fast finds purchase
over each newly heaped mound,
and caligraphic curves
list details of those who are
“Safe in the arms of Jesus”
or “Cut down in their prime”.
Silently, within the dirt,
sentiency shuffles
as flesh and bone degrades
as worms feed and fertilise
as soil is regenerated
and on the skin of the grave
a fresh green shoot
gently opens to the dawn.

© Jane Paterson Basil