Reclining shepherd on a hill,
He dozes calmly in the scene
And listens to a whipporwhill,
His senses keen to ills unseen
Would harm his ovine charges.
Upon the hills of summer greens,
The shepherd delicately leans,
As breezes stir the leafy arches.
Waking from a quiet sleep
He hears a loud recurring bleat.
Surveying all his ewes and rams,
The shepherd gazes at his sheep
And wishes from his watchful seat
He had a chop of lamb.

April, 1990  ¶ 00:00