Moon Hill

On an ancient hill in Yorefolkshire
Encircled by the whispering oaks,
Who sway in the wind’s gentle stir,
Unremittingly striving to coax
The Moon out of her silver dress,
I lie, enthralled by her quiet caress.

The Moon gives in to the oaks’ plea
And slips out of the cloud she wore,
Casting her smile on all, with glee.
I look up and with my eyes explore
The expanse unveiled by her light,
Enchanted by the pastoral sight.

A brook nearby laughs with a star,
Its image caught in her nacre lips;
The blue meadows that stretch afar
Into the night, speckled with cowslips,
Form a tranquil ocean of shapely waves,
Which my melancholic soul enslaves.

Wet with dew and on the hill supine,
For a more innocent age I long,
For a forlorn communion I pine.
We once belonged to the same Song,
The trees, the stars, the brook and I;
A symphony from beyond the Sky.

18 September 2008