If you stood in a forest, you would be, as insignificant, as a Worker Bee.
If gathered were you, with friends, in a copse, the beauty of you, would surely be lost.
If you lined a roadside, i would find, as i swiftly passed, i'd leave you behind.
Though there you perch, high on your lonely hill, a solitary figure, rooted still.
More unique than all your kind, sloped and bent, by forevers wind.
Now, a landmark you've become, used by all for direction.
And if, by blow of Axe you fell, or taken by some lightening hell,
that hill of which you frame, and shape, would become so bleak and desolate.
So plain it would appear to me, a hill, as insignificant, as a Worker Bee