The Rolling Hill

Rolling Grass, a verdant start, Upon the countryside's kind heart. Green waves rising, soft and deep, Where sleepy hills their secrets keep.

Old Man Hill, with mossy beard, And Little Hill, whom birds held dear. They watched the clouds drift, slow and white, And bathed in sunshine, warm and bright.

They stand so still, throughout the day, And watch the children laugh and play. The wind it whispers through the trees, A gentle song carried on the breeze.

Little Hill he dreams of flight, Of soaring past the day and night. Old Man Hill just smiles and sighs, Content beneath the endless skies.

But suddenly, a rumble low, A buzzing sound begins to grow! A tractor roars, a vivid red, Disturbing dreams inside Little Hill's head!

It chugs and climbs, a noisy beast, Preparing fields for a summer feast. Little Hill, he starts to shake, "I hope no plants it's going to take!"

The tractor stops, the engine sleeps, And quiet peace around them creeps. The sun dips low, a fiery kiss, The countryside, in golden bliss.

Old Man Hill, with gentle grace, Smiles down upon the peaceful place. And Little Hill, with happy sigh, Dreams sweetly 'neath the starlit sky.

A peaceful day at last is done, Beneath the setting of the sun. The hills stand guard, so green and grand, Across this lovely, rolling land.