We are, of course, quite common people,
wrinkled and scarred – not yet immune
to dreaming, to the private illusions

we wear like subdued tattoos that tell
more around the eyes and hands. We move
with habit calling to be fed, searching

horizons at first light, filling mangers
from barns built to keep us busy
circling in the same place. Always

other lives off-stage in the wings,
like ladies-in-waiting to the queen
who rules the barnyard, we protect

near borders from wild encroachment
pressing, always pressing-in – we adapt
by adopting a most common sense.

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