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They're going to build a wind-farm on my hill.

That hill I see across the valley now.

My Hill.

They say I do not own my hill.

I have no title deeds, no legal right,

No valid interest in what they're going to do.

It's not enough to say I love that hill

Have seen it in a thousand different moods

Enjoyed for many years its peace, its calmness,

Its Stability.

It's not enough to say I love to stand

And watch cloud shadows slide across its face,

To say how I enjoy its dignity and majesty.

I will admit to being green

Fearing Chernobyl in this pleasant land,

And I was one who thought the answer must

Be blowing in the wind.

But I have seen, since then, on other people's hills,

The lines of urgent, waving, drowning arms

That crowd their distant skies.

No more will 'jocund day

Stand tiptoe on my misty mountain top'.

Instead I'll see the flailing three-armed cross

On which my peace of mind is being crucified

And cry

Michael Tod

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Last modified: September 10, 2006