the shadows grow

Up on the hill,where I do look
below the flowers and the cliff
beyond the trees,along the brook
wind stirs the grass,like a sift
or a reader in the nook
not with speed, but with thrift.

There above it,sits the sun
not quite rising,nor quite falling
nor a walk,nor a run
nor going,nor stalling
calmly perching,not quite done
like a bird,its children calling.

Passing closely,comes a cloud
gently billowing, across the sky
a quiet entrance,not a loud
like an angel,floating by
veiling the hill like a shroud
I gaze with wonder,and a sigh.