Which ache slightly with pins
And needles in the places which
Can't quite be reached for in these
Zones and feelings of owning
To separate from being alone
For too long in the haze of the storm
Undone and falling into sleep
Like blue glass dreams of distant sheep
In the world of wolf scent and
Songs of the reckoning woods
Over the seventh and most highest hill
Where the stature of the angel sits still
Lips to trumpet waiting for the will
From what ever beckons sounding again
Call upon and be done with charm
Lessen with the bleating little one
So it is done like cattle sheds in winter
Forcing lives into snow opposing shelter
Against the wishes of the ignorant
And the unknowing of the truth
Be it stick or prod or promise of care
Somehow they must be put in there
Or the ghost of the cold will bitter them dry
Creating chaos and havoc with life
Forcing the hunger and the fear into day
So when the times comes they make their way
The heart of the farmer makes a fair grind
Lucky to them if the farmer is kind
So inward they creep with stumbling feet
Fitter and stronger when destiny meets.
Rowan Blair Colver