172: Pasture

172 pasture jasongillman mf

Green fields where we beasts of burden are made down to lie, enforced rest and abundant grazing. Fenced into the fold for safety. A shepherd’s goodly eye roving over us and over every wicked lolling tongue that salivates at the meat hanging from our tired bones.

No more looking over our shoulders with the wearying constancy that broke us down. No more scrounging for the smallest morsels with sallow cheeks and hanging heads. No more seeing the greener grass only from a distance along with hearing the peals of salacious laughter at our expense, and the clink of callous crystal.

Now our heads bow low to nuzzle the soft lush verdant blades, sharp sweetness, the viriditas spread by chewing, swallowing, savouring the goodness, green tongues long and damp with juice. Now we can stop having eyes in the back of our heads and simply be, lambs in his presence, wool growing wild and curly, frolicking in the frequent sunlight; dappled by the dawn of grace.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

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