Poetry by Christie Dickason

Sheep in the Mist

Hungry clouds eat
away the hills
where we still graze
forward
step by step, seen only
by an ancient
dark-eyed lake.

Cold mist hangs
on our wool
as clear as tears.
In the high still air
no birds fly
above the lake where
a drowned prince lies.

Step by step we graze
forward
into the time to come,
wearing on our backs
the tying thread,
as yet unspun.