Atop that windswept hill they fought and died
And seemingly for nothing, as their foe
Stood and crowed ‘The hill is mine.’
‘How can you hope to fight on ground that you
Gave gladly to us wretched few to do
With as we please?’
The foe had long forgotten how their hands
Had been enriched with plough and spade, not crown
When given reign of these, our lands.
And so atop that hill, a voice they met
The dead rose and spoke
‘We are the hill and you haven’t tamed us yet.’
Jeremy Hart, 2022
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