The Hill awake not yet

The hill hides face
From the morning’s rays

It stays glue on its rest
With sands dropping
Off its chest

It awake thy elegant voice
To sweep gently
Into its eyes
A new wake
Juggled with a happy yawn

Where art thou travel to?
Where has your legs depart?

All heads await your feel
To wake the gigantic doll
Out its fields


Image courtesy of


About Michael Ogundele

A writer, ardent reader and lover of nature. fell in love with writing five years back and I've been engraved in her arms ever since. I share my little way of writing poetry and reflections based on Catholic faith and Spirituality on this space. I hope you enjoy reading as we ride the same chariot to the leafy greens. Do follow me and together, let us jump into the ocean of my ink.
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