Mountain separated from bay in field of vision
by a paddock of four sheep, grass fat.
Therapy in tranquil motion
like a tank of fish beyond the windows.
At sound of cellar door
they squall by the fence
demanding indulgence from Marion,
who scatters oats and scraps of bread.
Every year they are led by the rattle of treats
to the man who will take their coats,
fearful, pressed in a small pen
December afternoon heavy with lanolin.
Once a large ewe toppled me
lunging with raised feet.
Bewildered afterwards they bleat
unsettled at shape of shaven mates.
Written just before our 3 ewes gave us 5 lambs. :-)