The sheep dotted the countryside like
summer rain on a window,
inching lazily onward until they stopped:
propelled by hunger and habit.
The haze on the noontime horizon outlined the
distant hillside in a pastel cream,
promising weather I couldn’t foresee.
I was still a tourist.
Salisbury, 23. Southampton, 17.
We hummed on; embracing the vibrations of the bus,
absorbing them into our tired bones.
My contented heart negotiated with my body
to fulfill the urging of my brain, which wished
to keep awake with wonder.
These ancient hills, this country grass
did well to free my artistry from the clot of the city,
however beautiful it is.
The hills keep rolling like well spent laughter.
There are no shepherds, only sheep.