There is a garden where I wish to go,
Up on the ridge of Hunters Glen row.
Where peace and quite work as a team,
with various gramineae simple and green.
Up on the hilltop, where the green grass grow.
Trees of all shapes are remarkably lean,
loosing leeward leaves in falls last scene.
Brisk north winds bellow like a hound,
sorting leaves of color scattered all 'round.
Up on the hilltop, where the grass is clean.
The autumn moon gleams in this cloudless sky,
moving, weaving, screaming a soundless cry.
Shadows are dark in this moon lit alcove,
touching our plants with a message of love.
Up on the hilltop, where the green grass lie.