Hollow Hill

The tongue of it swooping in
light blotted out
stained by the spreading whoosh
of an intertwined path
looming over
threatening what hides beneath
the surface
of dwindling leafy oaks
of ages past
Atoning for the sticky blades of flailing grass
creeping up the rotten life
of ever-stillness
Effervescent hushes
of wind
hiding them
as a mind of the core
knowing that the daze
of a detached conscience
could not wander through
the sighing that
exists on the other side
of undead skies
that never change
Flitting on special
as not many do
Dreamless nights
just for the
transparent curve
of special.

Alice Bellan