Home From The Hill Poem by Barry Middleton

never will I climb that meadow path
where I did wander in my youth
the hunter is home from the hill

never will I glide across the lake
the blackened mirror of the sky
the fisherman grew old

always I will sleep beneath the stars
at rest at last beside the oak
within my woodland home

no more I roam the valleys that I loved
my boots and gloves are finally stored
the hunter is home from the hill

~~~~~

With a nod to Robert Lewis Stevenson.