The fields are still, the herders tired, the dogs
all resting; the flock all feed, no bleating throats,
one lone shepherd under a fading moon and his
dog stands silently while the sleeping herd has
nothing to dread.
At first light, the sheep are lead to another green
pasture, the herders murmur among themselves
about the warm summer day. They rushed the
sheep through a field of scarlet poppies at the
beauty of which they are amazed.
Once in the pasture the sheep pull up the grass by
its roots, the pale tendrils will soon wilt and die. The
ground will turn fallow and no longer thrive.
High upon the half-reaped field the shepherd will
remain until sundown. When the windswept rain
begins the herders know it is time for their day to end.
They watch the sparks from their fires ascend upward
toward a purple night, and in the deep scent of the
newfound grass they make their beds believing that
everything with the world is right.
The herders smoke their pipes and talk of gypsy-lore,
and the life they live where sheep, dogs and herding
will be their life forever more. A glimpse of their
future lies within their dreams, a glimpse of what all
of their tomorrows will bring.
The fields are still, the herders tired, the dogs
all resting; the flock all feed, no bleating throats,
one lone shepherd under a fading moon and his
dog stands silently while the sleeping herd has
nothing to dread.
2010©annjohnsonmurphree
ann johnson-murphree 
So beautifully pastoral! I can smell the grass and hear the sheep. The metaphor for inner peace also is apparent at least to me. Your work is lovely!
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Thank you
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Reblogged this on OUR POETRY CORNER.
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So Beautiful 🙂
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