Each'A Beast From Round The Hill Poem by James McLain

Echo'A Beast From Round The Hill;
Not even damp moss from each floor unseen they come.
Forebear's now in reach, each lays in sleep too rich
too await as dreams just recent past in toil to claim that spot.
Morning hides the dawn no warning from the horn it blasts.
Those caverns each dripping mind and teeth white tipped.
What his really she has thoughts too deep they weep her needs.
Rivers cut through fields, lay open bare each breast thats 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 some more.
One child for you and one for each and damp the moss it never knew.