Thurstaston Hill



We struggled up the crumbling hillside
On a path worn in rock and naked soil
With polished tree roots making ladder steps.

It is Autumn on Thurstaston Hill
The burnt wood smell is everywhere
But a mist across the Dee steals the view.

It is quiet up here, safe from city noise
While clouds close enough to touch
Parade across the dull grey sky.

Sunlight bars sieved through the cloud,
Make spotlights which punctuate the common,
Picking out the colour and bringing it to life.

And on each side of us and far away
Stray light brightens up the rivers
And while we watch, Liverpool is
baptised in a golden stream.


By Hilary Neville