Far in the distance a man stands on top of a large green hill, hair blowing back,
His head is in his chest, his chin resting on his ribs, he stares at the ground,
The wind is unyielding carrying flecks of rain like sand in a hard desert storm,
This man is searching and lifts his head, his eyes open, they are slits of blue.
Who is this man who gazes towards horizons, across the four corners of the land,
He has stood many days in the same spot, the only movement, is his head seeking,
But he waits, a silhouette in the evening, a shadow in the morning, a man by day,
What quest requires so much patience, so much trust and belief, it must be faith.
After a few days, I get used to the man on the hill, in all weathers except heat,
Violent storms, bolts of zig-zag lightening, burn the nearby grass but not the man,
Heavy blizzards of snow, blowing side ways, creating white hills, on high mounds,
Hail and torrential rain fills the air and rips through the high lands across fields.
Who is this man upon the high hill who does not move for any of natures torments,
What can be so important that he stands both day and night unmoving, unflinching,
To stare at nature hard in the face like a challenge knowing he will never win or leave,
His search is for hope, honesty and purity, it's so hard to find small seams of gold.