A BARDIC SHEEPDOG’S PRAYER
I’m tired than an old sheep dog
misguiding, then guiding, then patted
for getting the herd behind the rustic gates.
This bucolic melody drifting like autumnal
sycamore leaves, but the haggard dog
follows them endlessly not caring where.
My fur gets snarled, encrusted from
the meandering journey nowhere,
perhaps this nowhere is a place to be.
There’s restfulness infused with restlessness.
A breeze finally moisturises my fur so
penetratingly, bringing clarity in all my pores.
So what does clarity bring to a feckless canine?
Well it delivers a benevolent twisted prayer
which spreads laughing daffodils all over the hills.
This critter still believes that a curve ball of fate
will still horrific conflict down to its knees or what
good is it to imagine blimey otherwise? Amen