“When all the flocks were gathered there, the shepherds would roll the stone away from the well’s mouth and water the sheep. Then they would return the stone to its place over the mouth of the well.”
Early evening routine that daily takes me down,
Places me gently to the ground:
A softish tussock as I look out
Upon the plains and stretching sunset.
Centring upon this whorl in the earth’s sweet-smelling scalp,
Like that of my mother as I bend down to kiss her,
Or the ring of my children as I give them their dinner
– Food upon the table.
My rest is in my labour;
Through worn muscles and edified callouses
These hours of strength and sweat and effort
Are where I breathe slower and deeper.
Leaving my hand-print upon this stone we here brothers heave,
I like to believe I’ve excised with worthy effort
The waste of my being;
The stacked up bumf and chitter-chatter;
The things that only I have made matter
– The ceaseless noise.
Yesterday was like today; tomorrow will be like yesterday as
Yesterday passed on this way of doing and being
That fortifies my ways of feeling,
And stills our restless wanderings throughout the day.
Any path will do as we pass through
And eat the food that billows out our spirits and brings us to this here well.
Like the story father always tells,
Or like our dog exhausted by the fire, but his eyes still shining brightly
– Let sleeping dogs lie.