The Hill Poem by Martin Moore
The Hill
I drift beside the pure crowned homes
that hide behind the drifts
virginal capes on snow capped domes
loosed from clouded rifts
Lights lead me to lifes bottomland
my artistic decline
a frosted pallet, a frozen hand
an absent muse or sign
Thus if I wish to rise again
to battle through the slush
this hill will be my painting
and I, my own paintbrush
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/7/2026 4:53:54 AM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
lights lead me to life, good write