Echo's Blast From Round The Hill Poem by James McLain

Echo's From it's Past Blast From Round The Hill;
Not even damp moss from upon the floor, unseen they come.
Forebear's hope now in reach, each lays in sleep too rich, spoils.
Two wait as dreams just recent past in toil, laid, claims that spot.
Morning hides the dawn no warning from the horn the beat, it blasts.
Those caverns seen with driving mind and teeth white tipped.
What his really she has thought too deep, they weep his need.
Rivers cut through open fields, lay now bare each breast that's full.
Each, beast from round the hill needs more to wake their need.
Men sleep on and on, each beard a mask that grows a tree.
While bags of ballast leather bound grow heavy as time unfurls.
Caves beneath the hills they fill and being full they grow always were.
One child for you and one for each and damp the moss it never knew.
The memory of trees that grow as roots run deep under ground
and minds are known when deep in sleep, some see all drift away.