Pastoral of a Serial Fabulist
BY KATHLEEN WINTER
Let there be a shepherd.
Let the shepherd be played
by Daniel Day Lewis
and let there be sheep,
the sheep played by me.
I will play all the sheep
regardless of age, breed
coat-color or ownership
but when the time comes
to splash their flanks with paint
let it be remembered
I look well in pink.
The shepherd will sing cajolingly,
throw himself into the role
without hesitation,
look sharp for the wolf
and be liberal with feed
come evening.
Let him let his dark hair
down, grizzle it up a bit
about the chin.
Let him slide through
the alpine lake’s mineral
chill with a leisurely crawl
like he did in the pool
at Torre di Bellosguardo
where we met last June
at a knee-high hedge
(his legs are long)
rimming the view
of mediaeval Florence
sparkling below the hotel
in afternoon glaze.
Let him be simply
delighted to see me
back on the Continent
again, on another hilltop
looking scarcely
a day older, my own legs
slim, dark and shapely
as ever, all of me
hungry and ready
to follow him anywhere.
