Tag Archives: fold

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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166: Barbed Wire

166 barbed wire pippalou mf

Hostile needling presence, pieces of fleece trailing in the breeze, caught on your claws, like piked heads to warn those straying from the flock. Borders with spikes to grab at intruders, a pointed rebuff. Your thorns are coarse and unyielding, steel roses will not grow between them, only a knotted, twisted metal yarn, thickening the guarded plot.

Is this door closed to us, then, even though both sides seem the same? Miles of dusty nothing separated by an unmanned, unmanning fence. Shall we seek the gate, the way, the five barred gate and return to the fold, or climb, undeterred, ragged-trousered daring, tumbling head-first, talons enmeshed in foolish flesh, sheep-like stupidity undaunted, till we lay bleeding and breathless, panting on the desert floor, looking back to where we came from and wondering at the greenness of the grass?

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com