The Hill

The afternoon sun grazes my hill with a bright orange brush.
And brings out the tri-layers of this tree-clad cake.
My paddocks below are in shade now,
As the sun makes its steady descent.

But my hill-cake shines on.
The snow gums on the top-most layer, the icing,
Are a sparkling silver greyish green.
Below them, the white trunks of Alpine Ash,
Are wearing curly wigs of a greener-green,
They're still sparkling.

And as I compose this poem,
The Messmates and Peppermints,
That make the lowest tier,
Are slowly darkening into a deeper green shadow.