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MY VISTA.
There's a lookout on the hilltop
where visitors can view the town.
Even in the hottest summers
those green hills are never brown.
I can see them from my windows
silhouetted 'gainst the sky.
I look down on neighbour's rooftops
which beneath my windows lie.
The green hills beckon from my window
standing proud above the roofs,
below glide varied automotives
where once tramped only horses hoofs.
Spring has come to dress the branches,
new green leaves they proudly wear.
Long ago was only bushland,
birdsong filled the purest air.
Timeless hills looked down and witnessed
Maori race possess the land,
through the ages, neath their heights, passed
many a weary warrier band.
Standing by my kitchen table
I visualise that ancient scene.
It passed like clouds upon those hilltops,
remaining only in a dream.
