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Image for the poem Hills

Hills

This is the view -
rushed by
boats, speckled houses,
flutter fandangos drifting by.
A Wolf spider wears back-abundant babes,
inhaled
before I've even sat down,
sunk into reverence,
spires of seeds,
still symphonies
brushed on backsides of crickets,
fair sail grasses on fair sail breeze,
trapped dog noise
freed, ambling
in open air
and children in wilderness,
across rolling earthpiles of good,
hidden
behind a church
in some bustling suburbia.
And I'm moved
by the bewildering joy of it all,
somehow
beguiling,
breathless
and pure.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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