-- Poor Man’s Gold --

by John Herlihy

I wouldn’t know how to hold a paint brush,

To mix colors to create a nature painting.

The sheep, how they talk among themselves,

With long, shaggy coats and restless manner/

Fences, at angles, keeping them contained,

But I do know that when the blazing sun.

Slips behind the blanket of willowy clouds,

The blue heather in the fields turns purple.

And then, for just the briefest of moments,

Before the sun drops behind the rolling hills.

And lengthening shadows overtake the land,

The entire landscape turns into a sea of gold.

What do people call it but poor man’s gold,

As no rich man could ever own such beauty.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Friday 22 March 2024