The Shepherd Poetess

I tend to a stanza, a flock,

Of fourteen technicolour sheep

Their fiery reds and sea blue greens

So each fresh day I shear the lamb

That blinds me by its vibrant fleece

The very shade that attracts today, that lifts and sings and

Makes the bones gleam.

I loop a thread of precious locks –

Which from its coat I dared to reap

The sweetest garment never seen

But foolish empress that I am

Don’t see it’s sinew sour and crease

So every day I start anew, til whither my hand

And bones gleam.

Photo by pqallan

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