Wednesday, October 10, 2012

If These Hills Could Talk


If these hills could talk,
what tales they might tell;
moonlit nights,
modified muscle cars,
racing down winding
mountain roads,
delivering fresh batches
of weekly ‘shine’
to bars and honky-tonks
across the Roanoke Valley,
missing revenuers,
never to be seen again,
tucked safely in isolated
gullies and ravines,
their rotting bones
all that is left,
camouflaged fields of
the new ‘cash crop’,
growing undisturbed until
ready for market,
the armies of Grant and Lee,
flanking and counter-flanking,
trying to gain the higher ground,
each seeking an advantage,
the dead from forays
and undocumented skirmishes,
slowly dissolving into the
rocks and clay,
providing food for scavengers
and worms,
ancient rock altars,
built upon solitary ridges,
overlooking valleys far below,
shameful family secrets,
locked away for more generations
than anyone can remember,
silence the unspoken code;
if these hills could only talk.

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