A Bucolic Fistful of Haiku

--- A slight departure from all my former Fistfuls. Please, do bear with me. --- I'm losing myself, misplaced in all my lessons rather than Haiku. Wandering the streets, here in the Forset City, I shepherd Haiku. Sing to me, O Muse, Markie, in the far off hills of green Fred'ricton. My words were not winged when I was speaking today, unlike my Haiku. I have just one eye, turning round my slim Haiku, turning to my Muse. I am longing now for a longer look at her, Markie, long distant. Why do Herdsmen seek me to speak things in their turn when I turn hither? Have old Herdsmen sung of things unfitting for me? Why lead herds astray? I am not yet dressed in their heavy goat-skin cloak. Might I want wolf-skin? Shall I be a wolf, hidden amongst the fat flocks feeding my Haiku? ---