David, Hillside

On my rock,
My rock on the
Hill,
I sit to watch
And tend
My father’s flock.

It’s lonely, this place.
Watching is
What I do, mostly,
Except to play
My stones and sling
Against the wayward wolf.
When I talk to the flock,
They baa-laugh
And move away from
The crazy boy.

On my rock,
I dream my Lord,
My Lord most
High,
Who drew me from
My father’s seed,
Knit me in
My mother’s womb,
Breathed spirit
Into my soul.

I feel his breath
In the wind,
His tears of joy
In the rain,
His heart in the warming
Of the summer sun.
He plays with me,
Sings to me,
Coaxes me from
My shyness
To talk with him,
A conversation of
Tender moments.
I hear his laughter
In the birds
Above me.

Then, his voice.
Even as he
Frolics with me,
His voice.

The time is coming,
My beloved.
I teach you, now,
So you will be, then.

He calls me beloved,
As he holds me
Like a lamb
In the palm of
His hand, kissing
My brow
With drops of
Morning mist,
Gently,
Like a lover.

(This week, for the Random Act of Poetry over at the High Calling Blogs, the subject is "Love in Character," a love poem written in character -- real or fictional. If you'd like your love poem in character included, you can leave a comment here at Seedlings in Stone.)