They stand and chew and stare.
They forget summer with devil eyes.
I tread their corral crap with care.
This is why the Duke invented the boot.
This is why sheep can count on themselves to stay asleep.
Even the misery of crows is soaked.
Somewhere near, they shoot at sound.
Reflections wither into puddles
In sky pelted with air.
Summer’s last is now fungi pulp.
This may just be a man-shaped memory
Of how things were.
This thing, most remember.
Only water cannot bear revolution’s scars.
Even after the flood, leaves kneel
Before the weight of rain.
I send Caravaggio into the sky.
There is the ongoing sickness of human
Import and export above.
Down here, even the quill of the heart is drenched.
Now, wet roofs hoard the still.
How is an aged tree so lovely
And yet a glance so skilled with mould?
Sheep only stare until the questions end.
They are as still as electricity.
(C) N J Green