Lying was he in nature’s lap,
While his sheep grazed in
warmth early of a November sun,
Femininely undulating hillside it was,
Rolling pastures,
Overlooking thick-wooded shadowy vales.
The rock beneath gave all he needed:
Felt its hugging warmth and support hard,
Swirling came the breeze by the valley,
Intoxicating it was, as the bright sunrays
stole the bitter pinch.
Shared he the perfect calm,
His herd bleating in harmony,
Rubbing against each other and gambolling,
Running came a little lamb,
Licked his hands,
The master surrendering to the
titillating tinker of love and peace.
Gazed he skywards lazily,
His eyes saturated with nature,
Very thin foamy clouds trailed
across the vast blue unknown,
Same was his existence here.
Faced as he the serenity above,
Forgot the self, shone as his face
under the great fire’s light above,
Flew kites tirelessly there,
He too, with imagination unchained.
The wood below across the valley,
Sang with the season;
Some sound broke the silence now and then,
But sweet it was,
As nature was playing with itself.
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