Below Mellbreak
Sheep occupy old oak wood
between farm, fell and water.
They stare like guards,
unsure if people are permitted.
Marking boundaries
with straggly tags of wool
here on twigs, there on wire,
they befuddle walkers,
lay false trails
by tramping back and forth
through seasons of fallen leaves
and rotting bark,
leave hard bullets
in every resting place
to prove their ancient right.
Lovely, Andrew, I can almost hear them bleating. And they definitely look at you as if you have no right to be there - which in their view, we haven't. Thanks for this.
ReplyDeleteLovely poem, Andrew. And lovely photos.
ReplyDeleteTo this poem I say BAAAAAAA! Seriously though, Andrew, your gloriously characterful verse about livestock made me grin. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteI wanted to be there too, to share your wonderful experience. Thank you Andrew
ReplyDelete