A shepherd slumbers beneath an olive tree
whilst a crowd of bells
chime through an open gate.
The herder’s skin is baked as brown as clay.
An ant zigzags his furrowed face –
like a jazz note –
The goats kid about in his empty hut –
one kicks a chair, tips a bowl
of lemons in the air.
The afternoon taps a somnolent beat.
The field’s a sheet of vermilion heat.
The goats feast, the old man sleeps.
All curling so close
a rainbow sigh.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His poems can be found in various publications including: Dactyl, Autumn Sky Poetry and Ink Sweat and Tears.