the goatherd

an old goatherd comes to the meadow everyday.

he shows up at nine sharp every morning.

tapping his stick and calling 'eh! eh! hoy! hoy!'

he leads his goats to the meadow.

they are ready to run astray as soon as they reach there.

he calls again, tapping his stick, bringing them in a queue.

they eat grass. he sits down on a boulder, resting the stick on his shoulder.

watching his goat eagerly grazing.

he watches them closely as they wander here and there lazily.

he directs, shouts and calls them to stay close.

timid, naughty, innocent, impatient, quiet, wayward.

he watches them all.

he has a white beard. he wears a white vest.

he is bald. he is old but he hears their bleating sound.

he walks near them, comforting their fears, like a parent.

they eagerly eat grass, waggle their ears and wagging their tails.

he watches them then gets absorbed in thought.

he's never been to college

he can only count notes and coins.

yet he sits composed with manners, observing, thinking, reminiscing 

he sits cross legged, his knees locked in his palms

he is a perfect gentleman uninterested in trifles.

he smiles at the green trees,

the flowers and the water flowing

embracing the wind like an old friend.

he rises, moving about, he walks with humble dignity.

this old man walks gentle and steady with contentment and anonymity 

his face is devoid of greed

with plenty of lines and times

untouched by vices he is a saint in his old clothes and kindness.

his honest, wise eyes study the road.

he picks off leaves from the high branches of trees and feeds the goats.

then he gestures and leads them home.

'eh! eh! hoy! hoy!' tapping his stick telling them to follow.

some are close behind him, rest come cutely running after the goatherd.

Author's Note

sorry if they make you cringe.
i wrote all these poems about 10 years ago when i was in a dark place.
English is not my first language.
ignore grammar problems.