Gambols and Groans

gambol a gambol at the meadow
smelling the tree stumps of mildew
rest supine on year long pine needles
not thinking much life is simple
 
sheep on narrow path
to the top of the hill
envying watches ticking  
tireless unlike puffing goats
 
there's hope there yet
where heartbeats in rhythms
uphold the tired mortal
not spilled magenta liquid
 
on roadside
awaiting scrappers
to pick up the squished parts
un-baptised to the graves