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.