At the hills , growing a Farm*

At the hills, where Thou
Hath grown a Farm,
(George Orwell had done that, firm)
Once there how i ran,
Through the blasted , surface,
Reddened shape,
Got the whiff of cold air
(O how that always, me, missed);

At the hill top, right there,
Could see the cottage fair,
(George Orwell must've been, there)
Once got settled True,
As me reached, singing blues,
Sanguine asserted,
Found thy love never parted,
(O how that always, to Thou, me glued);

At the hill top,
Could see thy wonders,
Through thy Divine Eyes,
Me, how always wander.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting done with much artistry, by Sally Loughbridge Busch, titled "Hill Farm", courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei)