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.