Shepherd

Shepherd of the sick sheep

Who lead me up to teeter on the cliff’s peak

Totter with the thick, deep water underneath

As if their peril were a gift I should be honoured to receive

I’m terrified to say that there were times when I believed

All the times I caught them by the fleece

Just to lead them back to slaughter

Should have tossed them in the sea

Let them wash up on the beach

Wander off amongst the trees

And never told the farmer what I’d seen

Herder of the lost flock

Curdling on the surface in the stock pot

Perched up on the stove top cooking

And I’m hurling through the rocks until my yearning or the clock stops working

Because the path’s not crooked but it certainly is steep

The bitter pitter-patter of the sleet

And the scattered inner-chatter when the passages were bleak

And it passes at a creep

Like molasses at my feet

And I mark it by the gnashing of my teeth