The Hills

Sometimes I think the hills

That loom across the harbor

Lie there like sleeping dragons,

Crouched one above another,

With trees for tufts of fur

Growing all up and down

The ridges and humps of their backs,

And orange cliffs for claws

Dipped in the sea below.

Sometimes a wisp of smoke

Rises out of the hollows,

As if in their dragon sleep

They dreamed of strange old battles.

What if the hills should stir

Some day and stretch themselves,

Shake off the clinging trees

And all the clustered houses?