Cobble in the clouds
A poem
Upon the ridge where forests climb,
Cobble Hill waits, timeless, sublime.
A veil of silver drapes the land,
Soft as whispers, gentle as hand.
The pines stand tall, their voices hushed,
Streams run quiet, their waters brushed.
Mist curls low, a ghostly shroud,
Enfolding earth in tender cloud.
Trails dissolve in dreamlike air,
Steps grow lighter, free from care.
Each breath a gift, each view concealed,
Yet beauty lingers, softly revealed.
Here nature speaks in muted tones,
Of wild forests and weathered stones.
A sanctuary where silence reigns,
And peace drifts down like gentle rain.
