there's   a   maiden   on   the    hill. 
                                          
 grey  ceramics,  overshowered with moss, 
 stretching    toward    the     horizon. 
                                          
 she moves her feet.                      
             the patch is wet.            
                                          
 an island in the clouds,                 
 she's  cozy  and  strong  on  the  crest 
 with her sheep.                          
 and noone else is around.                
                                          
 as  her feet move her hazily forward she 
 looks around,  and spots  another island 
 on the sea of foam.                      
                                          
 stops     mid-stride.    she     frowns.