You’re just some shepherd in a field,
at night, on a hillside,
staring up at the sky, for a sign
that your real journey is about to begin.
The stars twinkle well enough
but they’re impossible to decipher,
and the moon, though full and vivid,
gives no indication that you have been chosen.
No bird can twitter the signal.
They’re all ensconced in nests.
And, though bats fly free,
they’re too intent of snaffling insects
to bother relaying instructions.
So there you sit, watching, listening.
afraid to dose off,
in case you miss the path opening up to you,
the gateway to other worlds,
floating islands, kingdoms of ice,
mesmeric jungles, catacombs of terror,
lands of knights and dragons
or giants with one large bulging eye.
Your flock goes about their business.
Some nibble.
Some curl up on their ground,
use their woolly heads as pillows.
The wolf is nearby.
But he has nothing to fear from you.
For he’s a real one.
You’re holding out for the fairytale variety.
