It's Still Life

In Couplets

It was more like a chair
than a stone that yields itself,

and he sits, fatigue pursuing him
into the shade of argan trees,

while his goats sleep close
as leaves that cling to a branch.

And he watches the woman
strike her stick on the ground,

goats turning left, turning right,
and then the man realises

he doesn’t hear wind in the grass,
nor through the daub and wattle,

nor the long pitched cry of eagles,
nor bleating goats because

the air has parted to make room

for this woman and
her silent tide swallowing him,

this woman
who never leaves his heart confused.

This woman
who drinks the Miracle Man’s broth.

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132-words. #7 (draft) of The Goatherd. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.