if i could tell you, i'd say this

The little boy on the hill
with his eyes as green as grass
and his hands like pale, blue-veined leaves
sees wolves every day
slip among the sheep,
their dark gray forms
bleeding into the white.

His voice used to shatter
the early morning silence
in the village with the roofs
of thatched, crossed hay.
The people woke up with bleary faces,
stumbling out of modest homes,
fear like blazed glass.

WOLF WOLF WOLF!
and then the echo against the sea
WOLF
WOLF
WOLF........

The all stood next to the boy
on the emerald-grass hill
and looked down on the sheep
in the quiet breath of dawn.
There were no wolves that they could see,
and the boy with eyes like grass
stood alone against their ridicule
and cried at the memory
of gray against the white.

It happened six times,
the terror-driven mornings
and the boy silhouette framed by the sea,
the white of the sheep and the white of the waves
but no gray, no fur, just wool.
He felt alone then,
and crazy,
and every time he swore was the last.

The little boy on the hill
with his eyes as green as grass
and his hands like pale, blue-veined leaves
sees wolves every day
slip among the sheep,
their dark gray forms
bleeding into the white.

He doesn't tell them anymore.
He knows they cannot see.
But he lives every day with the reality
of his own terror,
the metronome of his fear
against the quiet drone of sea.