The Old Ewe's Views

I see green trees and traffic from my part of the pasture. Not what I would choose to see you see. I would rather find the pastures green of some far off flung fanciful place, preferably in England.
Ah, that is where the grass is greener.
Or is it? I, in my fanciful mind only suppose it to be so. The reality is that my romantic notions are a far cry from black bold face of the thing.
It was there through a window in York, there in the north of England, where my blurred vision cleared up. Chimney tops and blackened streets, cawing crows atop dirty brick houses, this is what I gazed out on. The sun had refused to go down that evening, so it was very late and still light enough to see the guttersnipe youth lurking as near the buildings as possible. I wondered what no good he was up to, but refrained from yelling so at him.
It had been raining. I had left my Bible open there on the bed. When I had come home in the evening, there is was, with the dew of England forever embedded onto the pages.
Tears exploded that night, and would not stop. I cried most of the evening and off and on the next day. My poor bewildered husband had no idea what the matter was.
The matter was that I had discovered how foolish I found myself to be.
The old thing, the foolish old thing had to die to self that night, in the cool of a York night. Die to self and alive to Christ where I ought to have been all along. Silly old ewe.