A Sonnet: On the Hills

On the hills behind my home grows gold gorse,
Each patch like honey spilled upon the grass.
Crossing a creek with water clear like glass,
I climb ever onwards, set on my course.

Amongst nature I have little remorse.
Learning about life as though I’m in class,
I study in detail each life that I pass,
With thanks I stand nurtured by nature’s source.

Raw remnants remain, a lost lamb’s lost limb
Left lying, a sign of life and dying.
A mother sheep bleats, her grief growing grim.
And overhead a kestrel is flying

Taking no heed of this sorrow filled hymn.
The balance of nature edifying.


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