She walked home through the darkening glade, singing of the stars; and the trees stood still and listened to her and the mountains were glad – Ruskin Bond
On the horizon in the evening,
My hills parley with the setting sun.
Negotiating the less intensity of sunlight,
As its cool blanket of forest cover,
Is now tattered.
I meander homesick for old hills.
Where pines, cedars, and oaks
Grew in abundance,
And where ferns swayed with life,
As their branchlets gracefully kissed
Water of a vagabond hill stream.
Lack of rain now have led to
Forest fires which ate up,
Pheasants, predators, pines, loam, and leaves
In death my hills now have become,
Stalagmites of barren soil!
In its woods,
I didn’t know what I was looking for,
May be a shy mimosa leaflet or a fawn!
Frisking from the moist understory of chestnut,
But all I see was a pile of dead shrubbery,
Rising ominously like the Third Reich.