The sheep's gaze reproaches me,
that quiet sad look.
Oblivious of impending doom,
lambs are springing over the turf;
play chase with their friends,
just as my son did,
limbs gawky like elbows.
My coat pockets are heavy and deep.
Vigorous old ladies stop us in the narrow street.
"May we look?" they ask us politely.
"Such fine work, isn't it?" stroking
his capacious jumper this way and that:
Ivy's deft patchwork knit,
a soft treasure mapped in wool.
The ewe eyes me, her gaze
penetrates my silent sympathy;
sees into the sophistry wrapped
deep in my raw coat pockets,
leaking lightly inside the tidy parcel.
She turns away; I turn away
from the fields of grazing green:
distant fields dotted with white lambs.
One lamb is missing.
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