In a county called Bradford
Distant from my present hill,
I could see a road meandered
And I had some time to kill.

With curiosity piqued,
I drove over to inquire.
It seemed a road to nowhere.
That aimed only higher.

At length there it was,
What seemed the proper lead.
The road sign was out of plumb,
Rusted, in tattered weeds.

Beauty reigns here, though,
Where predecessors ounce strode.
Town Fathers chose the obvious.
The sign simply read: Hill Road.

At last at the top!
The view that laid in wait
Must inspire every visitor
Who could near appreciate.

But what was it that happened here?
A breeze wafts its quiet reply.
Naught but a foundation remains
Was there fire here on high?

Did a family once celebrate
This dramatic view?
Only to leave this vestige
Here wetted with morning due?

Did they somehow know I’d visit here?
And thank them without measure.
A point here on Bradford’s map,
A place of untold treasure.