A HILL AND ITS SCARRING



I used to think that a hill
covered with pristine forest
was as beautiful as a hill could be,
and the echo of birds
and the sweet smell of undergrowth
was peace in all reflected
in the light horizon's sun.

But yesterday, I saw a hill,
scarred by a cut of road
and curried by the roar of traffic.
Trees capped its crown, and
though I was too small to hear,
no doubt there was cawing, and
the scrabbling of birds in their limbs.

The scar, cut by man's hand,
glowed golden in the setting sun,
gave crows-feet wrinkles to the valley
and made it a place, as age
brings humanity to a face.
So now I know, a hill can be plain
and a scar as beautiful as honey gold.