Are the smooth, round, well polished hills,
By the invisible hands of
Wind, rain, heat, and chill.
Are the grooves, paths, fences,
cars parked in the distance,
no one can tell from whence.
But where are the cows, the hikers, and keepers of this land,
Whose hooves and boots left the golden hills branded?
I can see
the slithering grey road
Winding down and around,
To the blue and grey bay, the still wind blades,
And a patch of a little town.
Are the heart beats of the land,
Breathing up and down.
The yearning of the golden,
The waiting by the blue,
For the formless powerful ghost
To turn the wind blades around,
To caress the lonely hills,
And to light up the little town.
Life forces, yin and yang,
What you see,
Is what you cannot see,
(Poem by Joanne Tan, 11/20/2013. Photo by Joanne Tan. All rights reserved.)