The Tel at Givat Oz

A Poem.

At Givat Oz today, we stood on a high Tel.
Where three or four cultures rust in gentle
Oblivion. Under a wrapper of fine winter hay,
All green and bending to the sickle bar,
A quarry of notions, antique bones, a glazed jar
Thin and graceful as a one-legged heron
In the Hula swamp, await the antiquarian’s devotion.

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The Tel at Givat Oz

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