Wednesday, January 18, 2012

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


1 comment:

IamAS said...

Beautifully written!