A little house on a small black hill
Never growing always standing still

As if to say all here is dead
none survived and all have left
until my dear on one windy day
when the windmill turned
and the ground began to spray

A shoot emerged in that plain of plain
black like the hill
taller than the cane

It grew and grew and grew some more
mighty like mountains
till it seemed no more

And then slowly and quite polite
it extended a bough
at just the right height
for a swing my dear
now do you see the swing
that swings so effortlessly?

A little house on a small black hill
never growing always standing still.
But I see now more than before
that this is not true

I only had to open the door.