Thru-hiking a sheep-cropped pasture,
I spied a shepherd in repose,
in the shadow of a boulder.
I asked, "Do you know which way it flows?"
"It flows? What flows? the creek below?"
"I know the creek must flow downhill.
I mean how I flow through the world,
or it through me - by force or will?"
"I know when I lie here it slows,
between the bleats and blowing winds,
and I wonder through shaded eyes
whether the world is still in spin?"
I nodded, wandering on, wondering whether the world would stop for the likes of me.
This entry was posted in Poetry, poem and tagged poetry, poem, Flow, Eclogue, Stillness by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
