Storied Lands [Sonnet / Idyll]

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.

POEM: Sense of the Meadow [Day 19 NaPoMo: Idyll]

The clang of bells is all the din allowed
high within this remote mountain meadow.
Perhaps, a shepherd’s shout or a dog’s bark,
but only when a sheep has strayed too far.

 

So silent you smell flowers on the wind —
as senses seek some sign of life’s embrace.
Moreso, if you shut your eyes to the green
whose verdant rug stretches to azure skies.

 

Buttercups feather hillsides in yellow,
bare granite shoulders the grassy valley,
and cumulus clouds drift, low and lazy,
breaking up the cartel of blue and green.