on the hill

beyond the hill

beyond the hill

I'm on

the snow

is slowly making

shape

like a monk's tonsure

beyond the hill

and on my hill

heather

gorse

and bees still thrive

I walk in the blinding sun

of autumn

low in the sky

I rittle-rattle

the myriad leaves

and cinkers

no longer clonking

like me

I feel the coming winter too

not the first

hopefully

not last

but when the time is come

scatter my dust

upon the hill

before the hill

before the snowy hill

may some end

on the whiskers of a busy busy squirrel

or at the base of a wind blasted

silver birch

like my hair used to be

but above all

may it fly

above the hill

beyond the hill

from my hill

out out out

to who knows

where

the joy of every where