The Field On the Hill
To stand and stare, at the field in the hills,
We watch in awe, from window sills,
And stare and watch, with mesmerised eye,
The clouds trailing shadows, as they float on by,
To reveal an array, different shades of green,
And vibrant petals, waiting to be seen.
A farmer emerges, on the horizon of green,
To untouched beauty, on a tree, he will lean.
An old oak tree, with a crown of leaves,
The crown mildly shakes, to an upward breeze.
Since the beginnings of time, the tree has stood,
It’s roots grow deep, through the grass and mud.
Generations of people, have sat underneath,
And stared up at the tree, with its dark green wreath.
And declared their love, with a small pen knife,
In the bark of the tree, a commitment for life.
The tree now stands, with two lone visitors,
The farmer and his dog, who walk the perimeters.
The tree will stand, for generations to follow,
As it grows older, it’s trunk will hollow.
And make good as a home, for the animals there,
From the birds and the bugs, to the rabbits and hare.
I look at this field, and my eyes do gaze,
A peaceful land, where the animals graze.
A place that’s full, of nature and wonder,
From sun and rain, to hail and thunder.
A canvas that’s filled, before my eyes
From the grass and the tree, to the heavenly skies.
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