O’ green and wet hills where peace doth reside.
Rest’s Morn blessed in autumnal mystery.
Not far in sight is drawn the city line,
Keeping back the chaos and misery.
O’ rock, thou hath seen History’s pen write,
I count the years of change around thy rest.
Hath thine eyes been blinded by beauty’s bite?
Or by man’s corrupt dance, thoust do confess.
Still I sit with gentle breeze swaying trees
And recall many past-pondering eyes.
O’ rock, thou lie in day and night at peace
When the world around doth crumble and dies
Whenst your time ends shattered into nothing.
Know now, O’ rock, your beacon lights something.
© James Walker
Image: Kevin Walsh