What’s That Coming Over The Hill

The light was leaving, thin and shy,
It kissed the moor, then said goodbye.
The sky grew heavy, dark with thought,
As if it mourned the year just caught.

I pitched my tent by a weathered stone.
My hands half-numb, my heart half-grown.
No voices here, no glimmered flame —
Just me, the moor, and what became.

The air smelt raw, like something torn.
Like rust and rain and roots forlorn.
Each breath I took was edged with chill,
Each sound a whisper, far and still.

From down below, faint lights were spread,
Like embers for the newlywed —
While laughter rose from village veins,
A warmth I’d fled for wilder plains.

But something moved beyond the crest,
Not shape, not beast, not wind’s unrest.
A pressure, slow, beneath my skin —
What’s that coming over the hill again?

It wasn’t the storm I once knew —
It was the weight of all I’d been through.
Regrets that howled, mistakes that cried,
The ghosts of all I’d set aside.

The gale arrived — a ravenous thing,
Its roar a hymn, its claws took wing.
It tore at the seams; it clawed the ground,
My little tent near heaven-bound.

Rain lashed like nails upon the skin,
A cold confession seeping in.
I heard my breath; I heard my will,
And still — what’s that coming over the hill?

Inside, I sat, my lantern weak,
Its trembling light brushed hollow cheek.
Hot chocolate steamed — so faint and sweet —
Like comfort’s ghost, I couldn’t keep.

Salt and vinegar crisps bit my tongue,
A taste of youth, when the world was young.
And from below, faint fireworks sighed,
Small bursts of joy, the year’s last pride.

I thought of faces, names once dear,
Now distant echoes through the year.
The storm outside became their song,
A chorus fierce, forgiving, and strong.

I raised a toast, my humble cheer,
To loved ones lost, and those still here.
To fleeting days, to time’s slow art,
To all that broke, yet shaped my heart.

By midnight, fog had claimed the moor,
Each gust a hand at nature’s door.
The world was gone, replaced by thrill —
Of fear, of awe, of something still.

And in that wildness, sharp and deep,
I found the truth I’d failed to keep:
The thing that came was not the storm,
But me — transformed, remade, and reborn.

What’s that coming over the hill?
It’s the past, the self, the shadow still.
It’s every dream I thought had died,
Returned to stand here by my side.

At last I slept — the wind still cried,
Like mourning souls, it never lied.
It sang me down through dark and chill,
Through all that’s come over the hill.

Then silence — soft, like morning’s grace.
A breath of peace upon my face.
The grouse began their cackling cries,
Their laughter under waking skies.

Mist coiled below; the sky was gold,
The world reborn, the night grown old.
And though the storm had lost its will,
Something watched from over the hill.

Not threat, not grief, but something near —
A whisper saying, you’re still here.
The moor stood silent, vast, and still —
And I, the thing that crossed the hill.