They said
he wasn't a normal shepherd.
And he wasn't.
He was blind.
And yet he could see,
they said.

He didn't see the sheep:
the while balls
in the green fields
at summer.
Nor did he see
them grey
when the autumn leaves
were turning
from gold
in brown.

Even though
he couldn't see
them in his eyes
they went to him,
to talk
and to get his advice.
His calm,
his careful attention
and his wit
made him
a good counsellor
for all.

When the angels called
he sat smiling
on the stone bench
under a tree.

When they all left
he remained with the herd.
Someone had to watch
the flock by night.

It was as if he had known
far ahead
what was going to happen.
He'd been the only one
who wasn't surprised by the angels.

And now he sat...
smiling...
in his own world,
as if cold and snow
didn't excist,
as if war and hate
were not human.

As if he knew
that in the end
none will be lost
no more.