Tepid intent like a ewe before shears dagged, the weather of the run of the flock through dip. Limp lamb, deftly clipped, these sheep bleat, cautious, coraled to dry then let off into the high field at a jump.
Will my neighbours walk through cobalt blue waters, disinfect themselves of their wars, and shiver naked in the morning sun? Will we stand, nettled, to be numbered with wax?
Thistles grown tall and spiked ground cover overgrazed and when the season’s through the high field fallows wintering grass blue and greyed by frost, and electric fence silent, pine fencing waiting a new stain.
A field afloat.