Atop Holy Hill
Atop thy holy hill,
Thy pine – so banished – weeps.
It reaches high for clouds of rye
But falters incomplete.
Atop thy holy hill,
Thy servants kneel and pray.
In holy stone thy bell atones
And beckons forth the day.
‘Why dost thou hide behind thy wooden doors…’
Copyright © Lemongrass Stevens | Year Posted 2025
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