[Turner Cassity]

Bed-time Story


The sun has smouldered low. Its flaxen light
drizzles through the birches to the snow
where sheep stand still as haybales, beige on white.
A shepherd with a shoulderful of straw,
brindled by the shadows, softly walks.
The sheep flock round; he swings his load to strew
the strands on pillowed drifts like yellow locks,
then hastens homeward bearing sustenance
against the ghostly dark. He holds small hands
and spins his children tales of happenstance
and golden fleeces in enchanted lands.
Their minds woolgather. Snuggled down in bed,
they drift on snowy pillows; yellow strands
of hair glow like the hay their father spread.




Comments:

Small children are a notoriously difficult subject. It is so hard to avoid ten-little-fingers-and-ten-little-toes. This handles that problem beautifully, but may be too literary for its own good. “Their minds woolgather” is perfect.