Far away, grinding to the stone,
Sits a tender of sheep, thoughtful in the twilight,
The silhouette, of a delicate profile,
Is still against the soft wind.
His charges are quietly grazing,
responding to his peaceful shadow.
He is neither a farmer, nor a sower,
but simply an average citizen of plush Ireland,
content with carving sticks into birds.
There are no cars, there is no sound,
there is only the blanket of night
resting gracefully and watchful,
along this path to Liffey Bay.
He is gazing skyward, innocently,
wondering what modern worlds be like.
I am just a stable girl, with no right to question.
The horses stalls are small and cramped,
and my hands are dry with work.
He does not know I gaze at him,
each night, stealing glimpses,
when the moonlight is soft and dulling.
His hair is the color of hay,
dull yellow, short cropped.
His angular jaw is set in a determined manner,
and his eyes have a dreamy faraway look,
beneath their blue depths.
I am the farmers wife, a keeper of plains,
yet I know I have lost my soul to him.
I am milking the cows,
impatient with their leisure.
He is quiet at his post, dreamily gazing,
at the eyewinks bestowed by brilliant stars.
These fields are full with lush promises,
promises held in silence, as the air.
Tomorrow shall he collect his due,
a mere bowl of cabbage and a few coins.
Yet for tonight, as every other,
I shall dream with him. We shall gaze upon
the same moonlit sky,
from upon the same meadow,
our dreams meeting near the moon.