Hills

 

Hills

 

Landing nearby after a year away;

those same hills are still there,

coalescing one, then blending the next.

Well, of course, look and you will see

just why would they not ever be?

 

Libraries mutter: This city was built

of glass, in the valley of a fishbowl,

where summer sunsets come slow;

darkness descends in gradual curves,

gradients and arcs of anyone’s lifetime.

 

Some look out while swimming within,

circles, flexing slowly sagging skin;

dusk drifting voices call hugged voices,

hanging lazy, speaking late in chance

evening tongues, rising above, beyond

varnished pine closeboard panel fences

to screen many a matchbox dream lawn.

 

Quick, pinch your nose, jump back in,

swim, a quick watery dip of the toe,

stroking in three second stints, begin,

or did you end to come round again?

 

Get changed, try old hills on for size,

shrug off baked desert flatbread skin,

drowsy rain soothes, blur horizons,

uphill battles same as they ever were,

raise amiable grin to fit right back in.

 

Here’s a long broken window to fix,

where rebellious air penetrates, feed

weeds that want rapid rooting out;

tear up tangles fighting frantic for life

amongst grey lines of stony perennials.

 

Weighty brambles tumble devastation

to green border fences; if left too late,

threaten to crumble old fabled façade.

 

And just what is it that we do here?

Brush off roving journeymen clouds

of dusk midges nibbling at honey tans

after dark; an upward stroll in the park.

 

Did you end or begin scratching skin,

to air exposed without and, looking in,

see climbers amble with amiable grins?