Winding Road Up In The Hills
- By Thom Skiens -
the gold of god was shinin’ in
i’d slept in late, my domestic sin
an empty space had touched the spot
an aged fruit had died; it rot
an urge that nudged me to november air
perfect sky, birds were there
to the old winding road up in the hills
the green vast fields we wandered past
the mandarin trees, like characters cast
sloping hills and rustic barns
tractor trailors and ripped-apart dirt
the tree trunks covered in mossy skirt
a blue blue sky of heaven scent
this idyllic day - the maker’s intent!
