Stan Wilson

The Mountain

Oh where the mountain grows,
there the trees are taller,
the rocks and stones lay low,
sleeping in their beds of clover…

The busy bees are buzzing,
the sparrows with their sweet tweets,
greets the early dawning,
and is silent before the sun sets…

The lonely soaring hawk,
and its triumphant shrieking trill
is only heard when its claws are full,
and its soon within its bill…

The mountain is home to the world,
there are no homeless upon it,
all creatures great or least,
no distinction between man or beast…

The falling spring rain,
washes the proud mountain,
enriches its hungry soil
brings life to its soul…

The traveller from afar,
wanders along the mountain hallways,
gazes at its beauty and wonders,
was all of this done in six days…

He sighs at what he has seen
and promises he will come again,
for he discerns there must be a heaven,
and its just beyond the mountain…