(From my poem 'Fire on Beacon Hill)
In the days before, we made many visits to the forest
To walk among the ground ivy and heather.
Walking up high slopes, passing aged oak trees,
Along varicose paths of twisted roots,
Over rugged jags of flint jutting from the rocky ground.
This was Beacon Hill
In evenings of mellow Autumn skies.
To touch and hold each other,
To at least make this place known to us before parting.