THE HILL

Nothing spectacular to see

Not worthy of cartographic inclusion

To those that see me, know thus

I am a new hill

A hundred years or so I’ve lived

No epic written at my foothill

No marks of refuge for persecuted saints

No caves holding wisdom of prophetic verses

I stay silent despite a rumble within

A century without belching is quite a task

A new found indigestion perhaps

From the landfill of plastic wraps

Once a year when the moon is bright

There is noise and din to wash away sin

The ancient paths to an phantom being

Resounding with voices of the unseeing

Once every year I learn to tolerate

The frenzy triggered in the hearts of men

They bring their fire, they bring their fervour 

Leaving charred scars of withered flowers

I wonder if I should let escape

My inner fury with clouds of ash

And join the ranks of the open mouthed

Forced into nature divined backlash