At the Alps

The mountains stand so tall,
Majestic, capped with snow,
The Alps sing to me gently,
In a sweet voice so low.

A lone fence to the side,
Has seen these hills for years,
Its soul is old like the wood,
And compels one to tears.

The wild verdant grass grows,
And flutters in the breeze,
Like some green curtain waving,
Yet rugged like a frieze.

The scene is disrupted,
I’m embarrassed on my behalf—
Mom pulls a Julie Andrews,
And I try not to laugh.