the little goatherd

little yellow flowers that look like stars

are strewn across the grass

and big white ones grow in clumps

all over the hill that we pass

the goats come streaming around the bend

suddenly appearing out of the mist

and then in a torn sweater and worn shorts

she comes running, waving a stick

the other hand held out for balance

her matted hair flying in the wind

her slippers too big for her, her legs far too thin

clumsily she runs and shouts, creating such a din

pushing back the hair from her face,

she stops for a moment to see

and before she’s reclaimed by the task at hand

smiles a shy smile at me

like a song from long ago, all tune and no words. a memory

often fondly remembered, but almost never sung

like a gurgling stream, heard but seldom seen. the smile

is lost in the serious face that seems far too young

and she no bigger than the four-eyed dogs that alongside loll

with their moist black noses and big pink tongues

and off she goes into the mist, her face like melancholy prose

a mere child and see how she goes after her herd of goats