On mushroom hill

the ground is rich with promise

fertile all consuming,

through veins the pulse is carried

and the blossom of caps

 

tender, secretive with nightmares

of sweet languor,

butter wouldn't melt in our mouths

on mushroom hill.

This muted sun, the schism

 

of autumn bounty may be

the last you'll see

as sink down to mould

you surely must,

 

your perfectly rounded gob

filled with soil and worms.

We told you as much

but you wouldn't listen;

 

and soon you will be the rich fruit.

Such is the magic of mushroom hill.