MOUNTAIN GRASS

Mountain grass still covers
all these lonely hills,
still ripples, long and graceful
in the possessive wind.
Mountain grass that once was green 
now stretches thin and pale
across the creviced earth,
listening for the singing voice of summer - 
listening still, though summer's song
had long since sent its last faint echo
back from the farthest hills.

The hungry cat has stalked the land,
eating the frail,
chasing the small ones into the ground,
licking the green from the mountain grass
till it glistens white in the autumn sun
like the bones of a dead summer.

The hills have seen the cruel eye.
The hills have smelled the rank breath.
The hills have felt the sharp claw.

There is no peace where mountain grass
lies white on the lonely hills.

				Lucille Murphy