Grass Hill

I stand upon the a hill looking across the glade.
The trees are turning brown to gold as I gaze beyond them.
She walks past me, her hair a golden light, the slender figure motions movement with a leg not out of place.
I blink she is gone, am I so old now that I see things not there.
My legs are tired, my heart beats slow, walking this hill, will I reach the top.
Suddenly the wind blows there she is stood, my gaze is drawn to her, where no-one should look.
The sweet singing I hear around, this siren beckons and calls
The voice is in my head now, I gaze toward her, who is she and why haven't I tripped an fell.
Her head turns toward me her eyes are blacked holes, her lips part a slight and through the siren calls.
I take my final steps one foot at a time, my head is lightened by the Siren calls.
I gaze one last time upon my siren she smiles a sweet while singing my sirens call.

To Readers

Please note not all Poems rhyme, Some do some dont. A true poem comes from the heart and soul of the writer, these derived from hymns back in the dark ages, they were told as stories to praise the gods, ballads also were about this time and were used as a form of communication with others many were embellished to enhance and captivate the audience. Poetry and ballads became closely linked sometimes intertwined to which point the audience could not tell which was which.