J. Whitney R. Chapman Chimney tops, roof tops, higher than Tree tops I stoop there on a hill Sky blue, slate blue, cold as the wind Blew leaves that never stay still Buildings jagged and clustered I remained unflustered. People are strolling, cars only rolling Down man made paths of grey stone Children larking, dogs sometimes Barking break sleep of old folk alone Church organ, choir sing hymn life Sunday eve quarter past five These are my observations from a hill Towers and flowers, phone lines and road signs All these things come to view I look to the valley and there by a Shalley suddenly I see it's you Beckoning me to follow Maybe I'll come down tomorrow. These are my observations from a hill.