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.