Our little hillock

When I was but a boy
not going to school yet,
my brother and I
climbed the rocks
of a green hillock

found our own little cavern
hidden behind some creeping green bushes
and the earth, blue sky,
the sun and rain
were our playmates

and with small catapults
we could let stones fly
like whizzing bullets
hitting anything that we found

and we were kings of that hill
sending baboons back on their way
and that farm was a boy’s dream,
and we were catching
yellow fish and carp from the stream

and at times we were just as wild
as our world
making lions leap yellow and wild
from our eyes
which roared thunder clapping in rage

when the neighbouring boys
ganged up on us
wanting to take our little hill
and stones would fly to and thro
missiles of clay whipped
from willow canes
and our little knoll would stay our own.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!