In mountain meadows, bleating sheep abound,
and green grass grows as high as their hunger
allows -- about as high as cricket grounds,
but I am lost in fantastic wonder.
It seems to me this is a storied land,
not merely grazing space, but where dragons
once flew, and one might see giants, firsthand --
a place that's never known a plow 'r wagons.
It's where magic must once have arisen,
if ever such a place had existed --
where sparkling streams still burble and glisten
whose secret is kept ever tightfisted.
If you stumble into this storied realm
don't let its siren sight overwhelm.
I lie on the sloping hillside;
damp grass tickles my neck.
I hear the bleating beasts kibitz
as dogs keep them in check.
My eyes closed to the azure dome,
until eyelids grow dim.
I open wide to see the sky,
and note that it grows grim.
It's time to consult my sheepdog,
"Should we beat it, or stay?"
He barks to me, "Now can't you see,
the clouds 're dirty wool gray?"
"I see it clearly as my hand,
but what does that shade mean?"
"It means you're not a shepherd, and
you may need the latrine."