All Your Hills (a 21st-century poem)

All your hills, composed, might I say,
around a memory you had of triumph.
Human statues battering each other,
the sanity of power writ large,
seeing from here the cowering cottages
dug into the hillside. What a difference
your absence will make, so dogged and so human.

All your hills, stretching out
to the calm, clear waters of a submarine sky,
emollient and abandoned around the edges.
Intuit the sleeping hordes of your country,
prayerful to a stretch, extending glacial feeling.

All your hills, arising in layers
of golden platitudes, the sun and stars
awaiting your maximal riposte;
the flocks of cadavers discipling their way
through mazes of sleep and half-decisions.
Even the wolves now know your words,
the bas-relief decree.

All your hills, deadlocked in time, to be duly decomposed.
A soft chorus of sighs rises from the sleek tenation of sleep
and the virile world decides it has better things than you.