Creeping around the pockered hill,

*

Sunlight varnishes branches crimson.

*

Time seemed to stand still,

*

Skin taunt began to moisten.

The old must die,

*

New must come forth from its tomb.

*

Nearby a falcon flies high,

*

Casting an eye on nature’s bloom.

Out of Gods home a humble life,

*

Not human but a living creation.

*

Now eager to join the wildlife,

*

Wing ribbons dry slowly and harden.

Distant hills with glory on there summits,

*

Grassland waits for thy scythe.

*

I had to admit bathed in a yellow gauntlet,

*

Life was so good as I writhe.