|
| Mid-life Pastoral | |
| The sheep don't bother me too much | |
| they graze without concern in peace | |
| and think these hills as home, yet home | |
| should feel so different than this; | |
| I tell myself I can ignore them now | |
| and turn my back, pretend they go away - | |
| some white, some black, I've been both kinds | |
| and I won't count them, I don't want to sleep. | |
| But it's the grass that bothers me | |
| it's greener on the side I haven't been. | |
| the side we've trampled on, each blade | |
| bows graceful, each weighed with a tear | |
| or drop of sweat: yours, mine maybe; | |
| not knowing which is which, I'll tell | |
| myself it's dew, small recalled gleams; | |
| and if my hands could still find time | |
| to touch your face, and yours touch mine, | |
| could they still brush away what we have done? | |
| And maybe I've begun to be afraid | |
| of living out the day within these hills' embrace | |
| that keeps me from the evening sun, | |
| my lifelong wait, my dream: it dawns on me, | |
| no sunsets here, and self-illumination fails | |
| the way of silence or accusing glances -- | |
| So how long will it be 'til sheep awake to find | |
| their shepherds' shadows skulk the dark, like wolves. | |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) |
