Photo by Martin Bisof on Unsplash
Upright blades of grass march toward the horizon.
Rows of trees scatter into a forest,
their leaves dancing atop the gentle wind.
Sheep coated in clouds chew in unison
patient as the lazy sun.
A fat hill wakes—
its slope is lined by bright yellow flowers
with petals like dots or like stars and
nettles, sharp and crystalline,
the fuzz on its back.
And within the hill’s stone heart
rest the bones of a Neolithic man,
snug within a hollow that stretches endless,
far from the sheep and the dew and the rain
that shrinks and widens.
The sheep know his name as they do their own;
he sits curled like a lamb too young to graze
as ewes walk in circles that grow like
seeds sown and become long, thin,
enough to flutter in the wind among the grass.
Under my feet,
asphalt sputters.