Uncollected (Poetry)

They wander off — vague shapes against the grey
of evening rolling down the valley’s side.
Not lost, but grazing steady, miles away
where cool winds sing and spread their solace wide.

The motley ewes have lambs that trail along
unherded by the dog of discipline —
no pesky rule of pen insists they throng
but lets them drift and find contentment in

sheer freedom of expression — wild and free
warm creatures of small dreams misunderstood
they’ve scattered, taking every part of me
where chance unfolds the casual way it should.