The brass trumpet calls like an alpine horn, long and low across the meadow. The flowers would answer if they could but only the goats lift their heads and shake them, as if blaming their fanciful imaginations for the sound. They have no idea they are being summoned by love to a real feast, as they eat anything and everything they can find, thinking hats are lunch, and washing lines, vines with delicious hanging fruit. “How foolish!” We cry, and then realise we too may be missing the true banquet.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018
reference photo for quick pastel sketch courtesy of Therese Wontorek
