The Shepherd Who Plays Cello To His Sheep

Each rambler who reaches the peak
places another pebble on the cairn
and buries the old gods that one iota deeper.

How many pennies does it take
to cover the eyes of a giantess
who once wore this pasture for her pinafore?

Elgar beams down, bewhiskered
from clouds, while the wind saws
its bowstring across the fret of fields.

The crofter's cottage fails to capture Sky
in a dish upturned towards heaven's
patina of fake, unblinking stars.

Sheep do not recall the songs
of angels, nor the holy light
upon the hillside, so are not saved.