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