Hush, can you hear their call?
This ground speaks to my deepest parts,
Oh Mother Earth that I was so wrongfully cleaved from-
My blood rolls through these hills,
Like secret streams that give life to everlasting trees.
Let me sway in each breeze,
And dance a rhythm only the mountains could know.
For here words only speak of mortality,
Let me walk upon your ground and become one with this wholeness.
And when I have grown old and wrinkled as a poplar’s trunk,
Lay me down beneath its shade that my bones may at last find peace.
Then will the two become one,
What was cleaved made unblemished.
And I may seek eternal rest,
Within these everlasting hills.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.
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