Pastoral – National Poetry Month – Day 11

I love the combination of fantasy and reality to describe a genuine but very magical place.

S. Thomas Summers

Yesterday, I visited a place like the place described below. I’ll return!!

Pastoral

I know a place where the hills roll –
green and gentle, like the belly of a snoring troll
gone to slumber after his grog has thinned

his muddy blood. It’s a good place –
where breezes blow as tender as a fairy’s dream
‘cause fairies always dream of tender things:

feathers dipped in sunlight or raindrops
set to glimmer on a frog’s back, full of hush
and moonshine. I visit when I can, with a packed basket:

cheese as white as ivory, soft enough to slip a knife through,
warm bread, with crust thick as a goblin’s will to lay it on,
and a pint, a dark pint, cold, a stout river just begun to thaw

after April disturbs its winter rest. There I’ll eat and breathe
until slumber eases up about me like a damp…

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