The Herd

            I, in my infinite hypocrisy,

Despised from my mountain cove

The bleating sheep roving, filling the knoll,

Caught up in their ritual dereism.

            I, from my high hovel,

Descried that white pool of heads, bobbing hinds,

Moving as water does

In pipes beneath the populous.

            I, through the clouds around my cave,

Cried to the hopeless herd,

Grided my stones together, against the earth.

Neither I nor my voice

Resonates

With the symphony of the sheep

Pasturing there in the grassy field.

by: Raymond Alistair

 Reflective Light Photography