Under Hill

We went down
to the river bed
one summer day,
sun overhead,

to train tracks, long
grown green with weeds,
through fields
of dandelion seeds,

down to where
the river once ran,
the flowered road
of grass and sand,

to a lost hill which
touched the skies,
and where that hill
began to rise,

we saw a hole
six hands across,
tucked in leaves
and vines and moss.

Under hill,
we slowly crawled,
over lichen lace,
enthralled

by hints of lights
around each bend,
unsure of where
this path would end,

'til we saw
a fire far,
lain beneath
a hanging star,

and as we neared
we heard a song,
bright and wild
and strung along

by the children
just beyond the hill.
We ran and laughed
and danced our fill

around the throne
of golden flame,
so long I near
forgot my name.

We sipped starlight
by the risen moon
and wove a pretty
willow tune,

sang it to
the merry skies,
the owls and wolves
and fireflies,

until the time
for sleeping passed,
and one more reel
became our last.

The children left
as sunrise showed,
the strung-stars dimmed
which once had glowed,

and music faded
to memory,
leaving only
you and me

beside embers
of a golden throne.
In silence,
we walked slowly home

and dreamed grand things
we'd never spill
about the place
beyond the hill.