Small white house fence tattered,
most days held in
hundred wooly fluffs graze
as I pass by.
Rosie’s in the road again,
Turn around I stop and knock
dog barks and rushes the door
as a frail old maid steps out.
I speak of the sheep grazing in the ditch
fifty five miles this road they go,
she grabs a stick and herds her in,
be careful of the rams
she says with a grin.
eighty six and going strong,
these are her children,
the Romney herd,
lineage traced with care,
but not a lot of call for them she says,
out of money
and running out of time
she tells me of her simple life
though in a hurry I stay awhile
to listen to the tales she weaves
about these sheep and this life she leads.
Passage of time again I wander by,
smashed car in her drive
I pray all is well.
Mattress days later by the road,
no lights on
and no one home
the sheep disappear one day,
a truck backed up to the open gate
and I feel the sadness for the life that had been,
new car now and weeds grow high
no sheep to trim the lawn,
no Rosie in the road,
and I hope she has a flock above,
And that she is with her dear loved dog
and family souls long gone.
The shepherd sleeps in her fathers arms
tending the heavens
with wool and love
and no roads that harm.
Photo credit: Sheep in the meadow-Dian Bernado