Wind Brushes By Trees
Wind brushes by trees
which are stop over to
skies that point upward
and hills in chorus claim
mortality. No change, these
hills suffuse time and space
leaving a huge blank of hope.
They spill over into dreams
but when morning arrives
they change colours in shades
of blue and green.They a crescent,
they the upper crust of fields
that waver in eternal rock climbing.
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