Climbing the Hill

Pushing the pram,

The wheel a honking goose,

She climbs the hill.

Beyond the soot-black church

A view, unmatched from all the city’s peaks,


But she looks down,

Her cargo, all her life

Contained in bags,

Her only thought.

Fine clothes that once had been

The envy of all who saw them.

Brought low by time,

Brought low by use,

Brought low by lack of care

Upon the wheel of fortune.

2 thoughts on “Climbing the Hill

  1. Hi Og. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what prompts one to write, and more specifically, what prompts one to write poetry. I haven’t been doing much writing lately. Life seems to get in the way, but then it seems like life should prompt the writing, and one’s perspective should prompt whether one writes poetry or prose. I just think my life has gotten too bogged down by the details of every day living. I applaud that busy as you are, you always seem to take time to write and to write well.

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